Complimentary read of Chapters One and Two
The
gods Are All Terrorists
By Mack
McColl
Copyright
2023
Prologue
Facts
are mere accessories to the truth, and we do not invite to our hearth
the guest who can only remind us that on such a day we suffered
calamity. Still less welcome is he who would make a Roman holiday of
our misfortunes. Exaggeration of what was monstrous is quickly
recognised as a sign of egotism, and that contrarious symptom of the
same disease which pretends that what is accepted as monstrous was
really little more than normal is equally unwelcome."
Max
Plowman, from Subaltern on the Somme
Chapter
one: Hot dark damp forest dreams
Pham
Van Dong picked his way through the world's largest contraption,
“which is more than vicious." He had said it before and he'll
say it again, loudly, "like a descending spiral," for Dong
spoke to no one but himself while he bypassed the flourishing danger
(invented) and nature's traps (created and evolved).
It
was hot this afternoon, every afternoon, as he walked in the
bewildering valleys of shadows of death. He crossed the darkened
corridors everywhere in a jungle journey, able to discern where chaos
would explode over and under, inside and out, and, he faced this
constant peril in the hundreds of kilometres in his path. He had been
ambling through intense peril for an amazingly long time and his body
went south at this moment while his mind unravelled in various
directions.
The
construction of a contraption like this wreaked carnage on thousands
upon thousands of square kilometers. The belligerent device operated
under the careful scrutiny of its constructors and would chafe at and
kill reams of population unfound and unlost in an unaccountably dark
region of the world. Contraption engineers like Dong fooled minds and
forged a machine to shred the flesh and smash the bones of
undisclosed numbers of (scrupulously counted) unsuspecting people.
Dong was not alone in this task of course (except at this moment and
even then not for long), for he worked inside a legion of like-minded
'Dongs' who carried sinister threads of inside knowledge, some with
enough to survive. The need for this struggle to create a miazma of
perpetual carnage was, nevetheless, a mystery to themselves as much
as anybody else. If there was a reason, it was long forgotten.
The
countryside was a slaughterhouse of the deceived and blood was shed
in more than one jungle. The jungle where Dong was walking was the
former Truong Son of the French Associated States of Indochine. Dong
knew it would now be called the Central Highlands of someplace else.
He drifted down invisible paths this afternoon in a mortifying jungle
and sweat a lot as anybody would in this heat (and he was under the
weather in a self-inflicted way with a damned hangover).
Up
to this very day, July 20, 1956, Dong had been carousing in the City
of Hanoi at victory celebrations whereas in hindsight he should have
foreseen the difficulties that lay ahead and confronted him today,
should have seen them even as late as last week, or sooner, like when
his fancy coat and top hat were confiscated when he came back from
Geneva a few weeks ago. Now he returned to these invisible trails in
the Annamite Cordillera for a miserable trek through immense danger
and intense heat. He carried a canvas sack that bounced off an area
of thick skin on his hip as he stepped over gnarled flora on valley
floors and watched a tightly sprung trap coiling around him. Aah oui,
il est un grand malaise, and the trick is to make it fatal. These are
the things he considered as he walked in the Annamite Cordillera, a
mountainous maze that divided the land of his forefathers into two
geographical extremes. These two extremes were situated on a
subcontinent that possessed neither repute nor disrepute and
virtually no world recognition, and it was on this very day one-third
of his native land disappeared. No outside speculators could say
where it went; a few might have blamed the suddenly occurring Central
Highlands while others might have argued whether Annam ever existed.
Dong was very much at the forefront of the duplicity and subterfuge
of this nature groaning in perpetuity through the constant waft of
mysterious, repulsive odours.
From
this day forward therefore Dong would propagate “new names” for
“opposite ends” of this uncommon principality, his home and
native land. Elders could say about these new names they had a
familiar ring, and perhaps the 'new' names had occurred in a previous
long-forgotten age. Now to clarify the confusion which arises from
there being two, well, North Vietnam would lie to the north and a
South Vietnam would lie to the south and nothing could be simpler.
These two 'extremes' contained their share of the most fertile soil
on earth, a fact the most ignored of all in political discourse
always ending abruptly after correspondents endured overtures onto
occult avenues (and down which they would never go and ever come back
to talk about).The way everything grew around here was a hint of the
supernatural fecundity in the land; the proof was in stuff accidently
growing stupendous yields, including cultivations of rice. Dong ate a
big bowl of rice every day (and lately twice a day) but Dong was no
simple rice farmer. He was sowing a homicidal harvest.
He
worked for the wizards behind the mechanical horrors that ruled
Tonking and these wizards had raised a new spectre, an even nastier
one, of new contraption terror. As party to creating perpetually
dreary prospects in a forgotten part of the world, Dong reflected
upon today's momentous turn that put him on this trek. First thing he
and everybody had to swallow, was Nationalism had been suddenly
replaced by Communism. Immune to dread, Dong knew the place contained
tricky images of paradise like the beauty of the people, the ferocity
of nature, the bounteous harvests from earth, rivers, and surrounding
seas. Ancestors who once ruled over these gifts were long gone as
were their intentions and whatever else was possessed of history.
Dong
hiked with open mouth, catching flies, spitting a lot, and breathing
hard, but keeping a steady pace and occasionally wiping the sweat
from his brow, not without thinking about the Congress of North
Vietnamese nouveau-communists in Hanoi. The north's centuries-old
'Walleyed' city had been seized and turned into the new capital of
the Democratic Republic of Vietnam (DRV). The ruling cabal of
petrifying leaders to this end included Ho Chi Minh, Le Duc Tho,
General Giap, and a few other fossils that had generated the
contraption. The ringleaders sat ominously atop a new Politburo
holding its First Party Congress.
Formerly
concealed evidence, surely truncated in content, and taking a newly
apparent form, indicated varieties of interlopers encountering
misfortune over the centuries when unwittingly (but somehow
inevitably) falling into these parts. Dong knew it was propaganda
designed to obscure historic, existing, and future deeds that could
be construed as serious contraventions of new conventions in Geneva.
Propaganda abounded to be sure but Dong reflected on his own role in
the current malodorous century, which happens to be long after his
forefathers contracted to build the contraption.
Simplicity
governed the function; a strange pragmatism governed the thinking
behind it. Dong and his cohorts roamed the countryside free-booting
from villages and decorating the realm with knots of string,
fishing-line, rope, and wire; digging holes, pits, and tunnels, and
fashioning tonnes of bamboo into various shapes designed for lethal
force, including thousands of strategically placed punjii sticks
smeared with shit, pits often filled with poisonous snakes.
Explosives were used on occasions when the comptroller splurged. One
way or another the legion’s machinations made segments of earth and
chunks or heaps of creation move to take out every living thing in
the way. Spongy ground soaked up the remains.The contraption was a
trap and worked as traps are wont to work, on the basis of deception.
It’s about catching them when they least expect it and it doesn’t
hurt to bait and switch once in a while, being the bait, pushing the
contraption to strike. With this trap it even works to catch them
when they expect it the most. Yes, this works too, but this works
with a fully assembled contraption. The surprise attack, the atrocity
by stealth, is the most exciting, of course, and the most recent
explosion of surprises happened in a tumult which had transpired at
the end of World War II. The contraption had been trained on a few
divisions of Walleyed and squarehead barbarian longnoses who came to
be known for their deeds and destined to disappear into the unknown,
which was right here, IndoChina, part of which itself had recently
disappeared.Immediately prior to this, a decade-long operation, Dong
and cohorts spent a few years ripping apart a motley crew of
Nipponese who were lured into the vast network of jungle traps for
feeding to the great grinder. It wasn't complicated, not in the
least. Put simply it was atrociously evil and a whole lot depended on
it. Heirs to four centuries of continuous slaughter had finished a
workup on the Walleyes. Those days were gone. 'Ferme le porte,' on
your way out.
Operating
the contraption was drudgery despite the havoc of these deeds and the
days were filled with arduous, subtle, and tricky tasks. Dong himself
was a rare entity, a long suffering stick-in-the-mud, and sure he
stood up to his knees in the gore. But not as often as he used to.
Seniority had launched him onto the world stage for a moment only to
have fame flicker out like a falling star and pass away instantly. He
was once again made to meander a nameless jungle with an aching head
and bones, this time regretting a week of smoking, drinking, and
carousing, ending abruptly this very day, yet which seemed so long
ago.
He
had attended the last day of the First Party Congress this morning.
(There had been another first party congress a long time ago that
nobody talked about.) The leaders had recently moved from Tan Trao,
the hamlet in the jungle, to downtown Hanoi. It was a culture shock
and Dong lived there in a fog. The ruling mob had fewer dreadful bugs
and other surprises to deal with. Dong's memories of the past week
were incomplete but 'comrades' had taken over the assets to appraise
them and suddenly a bunch of Communists replaced a former
Walleye-hating mob called Viet Minh. It was in the Minh that Dong had
rank. A new region called South East Asia began to slink in the
darkness under control of North Vietnam's 'Planning Council', which
administered the Politburo. Some of this was important news to pass
along.
Higher
authorities in the Politburo were the usual accountants and botanists
and a few councillors were field engineers and none of this would
ever change. Dong belonged on the trails, yes, and equally belonged
at the first (or apparently even third) party congress. He was a
long-time servant of stench and last May his seniority took him to
Geneva, Switzerland, and when he got there nobody knew who he was, or
what he was there for. They seemed to go out of their way to ignore
him, then the Geneva Convention was over and he left. Dong journeyed
through the jungle where he was important and the contraption knew it
and left well enough alone.
He
ought to have attended more of the endless sessions of the First
Party Congress at the Reunification Hotel (formerly Hotel Hanoi).
Nobody on the council missed the all-encompassing summary address by
the peerless defacto leader of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam
(DRV) delivered this morning in downtown Hanoi. During the last day
of the First Party Congress, Dong had briefly envied the Walleyes for
leaving when Uncle Ho began a long rumination about 'borders' and
Dong tried to act interested like he tried earlier in the week when
he, Dong, chaired a committee called, 'Preparation of a Rudimentary
Map of the Annamite Cordillera.' He trudged into another volcanic
gorge cogitating on Uncle Ho's arrival at another point in the agenda
(where naturally he stayed for a long time. . .). The endless topic
of peerless defacto leader's speech was feeding the contraption, for
the contraption was “rice and salted fish heads” to this gang. A
future of gigantic atrocities would surely dry up and disappear
without the trap. Peerless defacto leader Ho Chi Minh (aka Nguyen Ai
Qouc, Nguyen That Than, Nguyen That Thanh, Nguyen Van Than, C.M. Moo)
was the latest in a long line of contraption confederates or
collaborators and Uncle Ho spoke to an attentive audience, “This
device was designed for the Walleyes that have departed and with whom
went the old borders . . . .” And everything they could carry went
with them on a flotilla of rust buckets. Whispers surrounded Dong who
had been looking sympathetic and hanging on every word and thinking
to himself that he didn't miss the stuff taken down the Red River to
Haiphong by the huffy Walleyed longnoses when they left the region,
yelling at anyone who would listen (nobody) that they already lost
more than their share. Pas encore.
“The
time has come to dismantle the contraption,” peerless defacto
leader continued, then paused. Dong pondered a few enduring summary
addresses preceding this all-important (second) First Party Congress
address, until peerless defacto leader made this infamous
announcement: "And move it!" which stunned the crowd.
Move
what?
A
short burst of laughter broke in the room but died instantly
(probably at the end of a blunt instrument). Then silence fell over
the crowd and Dong recalled this because the silence occurred when an
ache in his own head began.
“We
will move the contraption from one new country to another new
country,” said peerless defacto leader, “from one No-Man's-Land
to another No-Man's-Land.”
Ho
Chi Minh’s arms were wrapped in a floppy black sleeves flapping
like black flags or bat’s wings in the direction of a few cluckers.
The speech would destroy all doubt in would-be scorners simply by
luring them out for destruction. Hundreds of confused councillors
fell under the withering gaze of Ho Chi Minh including Dong and no
doubt a few withered back regarding the idea of the Nguyen. None
would dare to protest dismantling and moving the contraption just
because it might be a delusion coming from a man who was doing too
much celebrating. Nobody questioned Uncle Ho. Nobody knew of any
surviving person who ever questioned Ho Chi Minh to his face.
"Parts
of the trap in the Phuong Dong will move to the other end of a new
jungle," said Uncle Ho, “and some parts on the cordillera do
not move far. We trusted the contraption in Tong King and Annam!
Those names are gone with the Walleyes and now the contraption will
be dismantled and restored at the end of a new road. Let no one doubt
we will build this road through, and sometimes around, the Central
Highlands."
Dong
recalled thinking, almost outloud, 'Build a what?'
“Down
this road we will move the contraption at great expense and at the
end of it we will raise a stench to make the world retch."
"Road?"
"Rich?"
"Would
you settle for a trail?"
“Ferme
la bouche! And make the necessary adjustments! Get used to it! There
will plenty more merde to go around! We will make it happen. You can
do this if you try.”
It
was Uncle Ho's job to cheerlead for the crowd before making the
operation proceed.
In
their spare time (of which they had too much nowadays) out on the
trails (for there would never be roads) a new breed of argumentative
types might suggest dismantling the contraption. No one would suggest
moving the garrulous and unwieldy thing except the consummate
Councillor who stood in front of the conference room full of mass
murderers. No one could say where peerless defacto leader came by his
ideas. The prospect of entering an impenetrable (newly coined)
Central Highlands to build a road where you can barely find a trail
practically floored everybody. (Nice carpet to land on for a change.)
On the other hand, raising a stench with the contraption was nothing
new.
Dong
recalled a glimpse he had taken of the fancy room and the weary looks
he had seen through his own bleary eyes. A lot of heads nodded but
there were hisses on a few of those lips. Dong failed to conceal his
own look of stupefaction (and probably wore it long into this forest
trek. He wouldn't know because there weren't a lot of mirrors out
here).There was one brief glimpse at terror when peerless defacto
leader Ho Chi Minh glowered in Dong's direction. “You look
dismayed, Comrade Van,” he said, in a lower and slower voice, a
murmur, “We will move the great grinder inside your non-existent
lines on your useless maps!" he shouted, "I heard a special
criticism (dialectic) of the rudimentary committee you chaired. I
suggest you go and make it a real map this time! For this is what we
require.” Dong held his breath so long he almost passed out waiting
for the blow to the back of his skull. "Renovate the
contraption!" The cardinal vulture must have stuck his neck in a
faraway vault because the money to build a road was not found here,
certainly not in the wads of worthless Walleyed francs filling bullet
holes in walls of the hamlet huts. Dong asked himself, why pick on
old Dong for hunching too close to the front, both literally and
metaphorically? Was he not behaving as one of the few doubters not
hissing and whispering? He knew to avoid the argument and remain
silent about his role as cartographer highlighted by peerless defacto
leader. And the morning dragged like it does for a guy who spends
most of his days in the dark.
Uncle
Ho had a windy streak given to endless speeches filled with
malevolent detail (and if they knew who to kill it would be the death
of a speech-writer). Dong pondered the extraordinary moving
announcement. He had to, since his day took a turn for the worst.
“Yes, Pham Van Dong,” peerless defacto leader had hissed,
vehemently, “you would be one of the would-be scorners.” For
agonizing seconds he had waited for the bludgeon to fall, instead
his headache grew worse.
“This
time, gentlemen, we play for higher stakes, although we are
accustomed to laying the risks!” Behind the bewildering contraption
lay Uncle Ho’s viperous intelligence and a dragon had less blood on
its fangs. They needed a guy as smart as peerless defacto leader Ho
Chi Minh to concoct a plot to put perpetual killing on a centre-stage
nobody could see. Worth recalling was the mood of the crowd, however,
swaying with an unexpected level of pessimism. Where was the sense of
victory blowing in the wind? Perhaps they like Dong were too
exhausted after decades running in jungles to 'evade' long noses.
Dong recalled one particular inquiry made by a wizened-to-terror
(therefore invisible) neo-Communist, “Is the soil in the south as
fertile as the north?”
“What
do we know of the soil in the south?” echoed another voice,
timidly. “What does soil have to do with anything?" came Uncle
Ho's gruff repy. “I have issued orders to dismantle the
contraption!”
The
new Politburo stuck with a sure bet. This crowd of head-hunters would
agree to decisions belonging to Uncle Ho regardless how merciless the
outcome. They were scared of him for he was known to instigate many a
harrowing episode going back to the 1930s when he used a sharp red
pencil at a railroad station in Kiev, Ukraine, and later for
imparting the same starvation economics to Chairman Mao in China who
took much inspiration from Comecon's despotic auditor. When famine
arrived in Tong King in 1944 and '45, during a previous brief fling
with Communism, it coincided not surprisingly with the homecoming of
the peerless defacto leader. Starvation followed this guy everywhere
he went.
Pham
Van Dong was still alive and outside the inevitable circular dialogue
swirling about peerless defacto leader's decision. But of course he
heard gossip swirl of an occlusion on Dong's horizon, and that was
just noise. He heard a surprising amount of opposition to peerless
defacto leader's announcement. To many if not all councillors the
idea of moving the contraption was preposterous and depended on
building a road through the previously unheardof Central Highlands,
which was impossible. The Annamite Cordillera was a barrier that was
never crossed except by a few tiger hunting expeditions and now
Dong's specific duties. The trails in the flora were made by the
fauna. As for human trails, the question had always been, why bother?
The
First Party Congress this morning contained a bazaar of
macro-engineering professionals, each with a lifetime spent in the
design, construction, or maintenance of the meat-grinding
contraption. It was originally conceived and built in the northern
half of IndoChina, most of it in Tong King, but a small section
operated in northern Annam so everybody appreciated the difficulty of
constructing things on the cordillera. Viets mostly figured it would
be redundant to add danger to already imminent danger, but eventually
an avid gathering of Viet Minh came to appreciate the harvest on
these tiny trails, for such a contraption is not the creation of
idlers (who ultimately learned that a long nose would chase you
anywhere to kill you).
Dong
knew that none of these councilors could imagine their lives without
it; furthermore the contraption itself would fulfill the wrath of
Nguyen Ai Qouc, the big Nguyen, the number one (and only) peerless
defacto leader. Dong, approaching his mid-50's, and a lifetime inside
the Nationalist Movement, the idea remained difficult to imagine,
moving a thing of such monstrous girth, contraption fighting you all
the way down a sinew of non-existent trails through a nightmare of
Annamite jungle (Was that asking too much?) to perpetuate the name of
one man who spent most of his leisure time surrounded by naked
children playing with rubber balloons.
Dong
averted his eyes from the infamously hard stare raking over the First
Party Congress. Uncle Ho stood in with a row of ringleaders who
blinked owlishly at everybody: General Nguyen Vo Giap, Truong Chin,
General Nguyen Chi Thanh, Le Duan, and Le Duc Tho, all products of
the French Surete of the former Associated States of Indochine. They
were silent like everybody else while Uncle Ho raved at the would-be
scorners. Dong ranked as high as any, in terms of seniority.
Political footing in this tiny corner of the known world, and unknown
world, never came with a golden parachute.
"In
taking our decision, we asked. . . ," (Oh yeah? Asked who?),
"would it be worthwhile to expand and spread the contraption if
such possibilities exist?" And peerless defacto leader had known
the answer, which was happily shorter than the question. Heads
nodded, for otherwise they would roll, plus there was general
agreement that the contraption was immaculate and irreplaceable. In
his address Uncle Ho blamed the Walleyes for a worthless currency
that reflected their lackadaisical approach to feeding the
monstrously sized device recently.
"From
a technical point of view, we know the contraption works perfectly.
First we agreed," he had paused, as at many moments in the
summary address, "that moving our contraption is a laudable
goal. Then fellow Communists we merely faced the job of relocation."
He allowed his crypt-piercing remarks to sink in. Ol' Whatzisname
should be expected to employ a single-minded purpose in coming to his
carnivorous conclusion (having the sort of single mind that promotes
human sacrifice). Dong had survived long enough to learn a few dark
secrets regarding ownership of the Nguyen contract, and Dong buried
any further contemplation, except he knew a practically alien
hypocrisy cloaked a huge stake in an utterly carnal enterprise
thriving in their midst. The contractor abided in a rare atmosphere
furnished by stratospheric wealth and made Uncle Ho an agent with a
sharp pencil used to cipher the tricky details weighing-in on a
large-scale rendering of humans.
Dong
actually knew his cartography job without faking, no matter what the
peerless defacto leader proclaimed, dialectics aside, and this was
both fortunate and unfortunate circumstance because it kept him alive
but for what? More insults and threats? "Couldn't we just leave
it where it is?" asked another invisible councilor. (Who was it
luckier and further from the front than Dong?) The foolish question
from behind failed to recognize the saturation point of the north and
exhaustion of population. Nor did it recognize deeds like these are
done to people by planning. The previous plan had been fulfilled once
the Nationalist movement obtained a nation after years of continuous
battles raging in the north. Naturally peerless defacto leader made
the former Minhs mob break hard on the Walleyes. Two things remained
after 300 years of Walleyed '‘colonialism': a legion of long nose
ghosts haunted the jungle habitat (near the rivers), and vaults were
abandoned containing ghostly francs collecting dust (or loads of
laughs when offered to the world's bankers). The Walleyes themselves
mocked the worthless papiere, "Ho, we will simply make a new
franc, so fuck you."
During
the past 10 years of unbridled terror, Walleyes grew snooty and
spiteful, especially once the predecessor to the Politburo cobbled
together pieces of the modern contraption and perfected its function.
Timed perfectly with contraption operations came the arrival of
hundreds of thousands of barbarian long noses hired by local Walleyes
(called Colons) to create an incomprehensible escalation. Viets rose
to ferocious scale on their own behalf, casting themselves in a new
form of warrior called a guerrilla. Behind the carnage, wizards
steered combatants into the contraption, which devoured until the
remaining Walleyes sailed away taking everything they could carry.
"Oh, faceless inquisitor," peerless defacto leader replied
to the faceless inquisitor, "Walleyes are gone and never coming
back," he said, sort of lamentably, and he hardly moved except
to blink, delivering every word with terrible gravity (except Uncle
Ho didn’t need words to be a menace). "Who else knows the
value of our possessions? Have we learned nothing from these tricks ?
We will invite another greater long nose!"
Dong
imagined he and his fellow Viets had taken control of IndoChina
because his eyes and ears told him so, and everybody was eating lots
of rice and smoking lots of opium, and no long noses roamed around
the countryside stealing the lion's share of an endless supply (best
rice in the world) and constant flow (second best opium in the
world). Of course it was too good to be true. Why not invite another
horde of obnoxious round-eyed bastards to proliferate another huge
stench in the midst of an exploding population, highest growth rate
in the world? To Dong, who was well-schooled in Uncle Ho's
Nationalist rhetoric, the new direction simply revealed a
contraption-sized compulsion for baiting long noses. To Dong (and
most of the rest of the council) sending an invitation to the United
States of America would seem to be an astonishing way to proceed.
Dong
was feeling overwhelmed, as surely the rest of them were, at the pace
of change. On any given day, he had stumbled through an urban grotto
searching for an entrance to a sweet-smelling opium den, fresh off
the stinking trails from sucking Walleyes into the trap. Suddenly, or
so it seemed, he was sat in a Swiss hotel room holding forth a phoney
map nobody wanted to see. A few days later he roamed an ornate (in a
gauche way) hotel and conference centre in Hanoi. This morning he
stood with bare feet buried in plush carpet in an opulent ballroom of
the Reunification Hotel and he became the ghostly centre of
attention, his turn to feel the terror devised by the mind behind the
contraption. How is that for startling change?
Or
try swallowing this malaria pill, "Pham Van Dong! Some comrade!
Your pitiful sneer informs us how entirely unfortunate we are to
continue to require your services." They probably hit him with a
sock filled with buckshot because he fell unconscious.
No
doubt the Nguyen went on in great hoary detail about the grinding
path to the future. Details of a brand new paradigm pertained to a
brand new agenda and Dong was perhaps an accidental Councillor who
unconsciously knew it was more of the same old shit. He became aware
of the youthful cadre slapping his face and saying he wasn't hit that
hard and telling him nobody was going to carry him, and then he was
elbowed off the steps of the hotel into the streets heading toward
the river. Dong knew the luck to be pushed in front of a firing squad
when it happened to be unarmed. They tossed him in the tepid puddle
on the floor of the sloop on the banks of the Red River. A gang of
three launched the boat and he heard them chatting about Dong's duty
to create a map of a place called the Central Highlands.
They
shunted him down the Red River onto the Gulf of Tonkin, and the party
sailed south along the coast to an indistinct point until they drew
parallel with the Truong Son. Dong bore the brunt of a thoroughly
dull a lecture during the hundreds of kilometers until the political
dogmatics ended after a number of hours and the conversation turned
to a sarcastic discussion about Dong's worthiness as bait. They told
him Ho Chi Minh ended the summary address with complete termination
of the Viet Minh Nationalist movement as if it never existed, and he
had missed it. They told him about executions taking place after the
meeting. Then they informed Dong if he so much as mentioned the Minh
movement ever again, Communists like they would cut out his tongue
and mince it and fry it and eat it without sharing one piece with
him.
So
the bait changed and Dong was informed Communists are it. This new
political fiction was fabricated from a litany called Causal
Doctrine. It went like this (slap), and like this (slap), and like
that (slap), and like this (slap). They spat on him one point at a
time and he could have replied he heard it all before. Uncle Ho
speaking of communist causal doctrine old news, heard long ago around
a fire, straight from the horses mouth, and Dong recalled thinking it
was slightly more brutal and destructive than the Minh model for
contraption deployment. The Walleyes hated national aspirations. The
Longnose Americans hated ideological aspirations. In fact, Dong
didn't distinguish a difference. Passing endless rivers pouring into
the South China Sea, water sometimes cascading from tremendous
heights as they neared Annam, (“There is no such place,”
commanded one of the cadre who ensued with an insane rant about Dong
lucky he was mapping the Central Highlands, or he was nothing but a
smear. Now honestly a mapping assignment like this one compared to
delivering letters to non-existent people who are never to be found
in the most remote corners of the world.)
His assignment involved traveling the Phuong Dong or Central
Highlands of the Annamite Cordillera (which is a chain of severely
grumpy mountains to form a bent spine on the IndoChinese peninsula)
where even tigers are scared to roam but do anyway.
Those
snotty young pups tossed him and a sack at the mouth of a river in
the waning afternoon and departed presumably back to Hanoi and the
easy life. Dong laid alone for a spell disgusted by what he had heard
and eventually rose from the red muck to doff wet shorts and lean
into a tree and take a piss. He looked for a trail down which he
started the trek. He was on his way with his tongue, a former
Nationalist reborn a Communist, and facing a long climb back up the
hierarchy and a long walk south and west. This late afternoon he will
meet a group of jungle-bound Viet-Muh, Communist cadre. Then he was
off to Saigon City.
It
was Dong's intention to be the most terrifying of all things in the
bowels of a mortifying jungle. He scared the wildest creatures with
his frightful image of sunken eyes set in hoods of skin that sun had
browned and years had wrinkled into leather. His jutting teeth were
black from chewing betel nut and smoking and a lack of dental
practitioners in the Phuong Dong or other jungles. He was wiry and
strong and still the heavy sack was a burden that made him hunch
forward and list in the direction of the weight. Clumps of red muck
from the riverbank matted his hair and the thinning pate was greying,
for Dong had seen more than a few ghosts. He always ate a lot of
salted fish and had breath that smelled rotten, which was enough to
slam a tiger in the face and send it howling. Years ago, around the
turn of the century, a couple of fingers went missing from his
strong-side hand.
Dong
took great care with a sack of gifts that came from a crazed American
in Geneva to be delivered to South Vietnamese (defacto) President Ngo
Dinh Diem. John Foster Dulles had supplied an assortment of colorful
long nose American magazines representing something previously unseen
and equal to a fortune in the black markets of Saigon City, South
Vietnam, South East Asia (except this collection was spoken for).
A
few Viets in the former Associated State of Cochin China, now South
Vietnam, postured obscenely and acted in a completely facile way to
attract foreign attention and placate long noses. These pragmatists
were called Catholics, there was a few, and their fawning had been
encouraged. One was named Ngo Dinh Diem and he ran an organization
called the Catholic Labour Union which in turn funded a bunch of
brutal sects in the south, the largest of which was called Cao Dai.
Dong
stopped to catch his breath and have a smoke, maybe two. He stooped
to pull on his dried shorts in the widest part of the trail and spied
a stump in the dark to brush off a place to sit. He retrieved a pipe
from the sack and a little purse of cultivated marijuana and fished
for a magazine, which he held toward a slash of light and opened to
browse the colorful pages and he lit the bowl of weed. In an instant
the crazed scouts from a colony of flesh-eating ants struck pay dirt
at his bare feet and Dong stomped the earth and blew smoke at the
ground hoping to cause a retreat. He turned his gaze to the
mesmerizing long nose nymphs reposing in glossy life-like color.
Rather than thoughts of pleasure his head filled with memories of
belligerence and he sat astride the trail in the relative dark of day
puffing until the bowl was consumed. Four centuries had passed since
the walleyes stuck their long noses into the region. Dong's reclusive
ancestors had hidden in jungles like this one where forests provided
seclusion to leaders in those centuries of ceaseless and inexplicable
carnage perpetrated by Walleyed interlopers. In these constricting
quarters the nobles escaped fatal inculcation by the French until Gia
Long became first Nguyen emperor in the early 19th century. Gia Long
was revered for making the best of a bad situation.
Dong's
parents conceived him (and Ho Chi Minh conceived an industrial age
contraption) in a wild and forbidding jungle much like this one
except somewhere else in the former Associated States. Dong
reconsidered his own life-long service, which obviously added up to
nothing for him personally, which he now understood was the ultimate
objective.. He had missed the glorious moment of victory in the tiny
village of Dien Bien Phu, being stuck in Tan Trao and then sent to
Geneva while the opium growers stood back to watch General Giap
spring into action. General Giap used up two million Viet Minh to
annihilate half a million Foreign Legionnaires. The stench of Dien
Bien Phu smelled all the way to Hanoi and was a coup de grace and
denouement for the mighty Viet Minh army. Pictures of French officers
Colonel Langlais and General de Castries taken on a wharf at Haiphong
harbour show them wearing long faces.
Dong
was destined to fill his days watching an apparently redundant (and
still hungry) contraption. Others suffered this monotonous fate and
soon they would meet and welcome the announcement by peerless defacto
leader. They knew little about the grandiosity of the new assignment.
Dong knew the contraption would take all of a decade to re-assemble.
More worrisome was the choice of long noses to take the bait.
Dong's
thoughts had turned to the immediate concern of meeting this group of
Viet, uh, Communists who were expecting rumours from Hanoi. He tucked
away the pipe and dope in their containers and the magazine in its
sack, and rose to continue moving to the south west. That snootful of
weed had performed magic and the trail was wider and the jungle more
commodious. The contraption moved back on both sides and ahead and
above and below. A short while later Dong's trustworthy senses
informed him of an encounter coming down the trail. But one has to
ask, was this the one he was expecting? The meeting was imminent with
those Viet Mi—er--unists.
Dong
stepped off the trail to conceal himself and wait for shadows to
approach. First he observed silhouettes passing through ribbons of
light and wondered if there shouldn't be more of them. He fingered
the pistol in the sack the cadre had given him at the end of the
boat-ride. Then more memories of belligerence flooded his mind. The
excitement of potential bloodshed subsided after Dong identified the
lead coming down the trail. Nevertheless he barked from the shadows,
"Who goes there?"
It
was Ha Van Lau who stood on the trail smirking at the bushes, "Finish
up in there, old fella," said the fast rising Viet
Min-uh-U'nist, "and I will introduce you."
Dong
groused, "Very funny," and stepped out to chuckles and
stared into the battle-hardened eyes of Ha Van Lau.
"Who
were you expecting?" asked Lau. Dong replied, "Where are
the others?"
"Red
dust," said Ha Van Lau.
Dong
corrected him, "Stench first." Ha Van Lau was a youthful
northerner and future leader of the Viet (uh) Communists, "Of
course," with a destiny of joining the (uh) Politburo. Let's see
how proficient he was in locating the body count with coordinates.
"How many and where?" Ha Van Lau bowed his head, and spat,
"Three in one spot. I have coordinates." He held out a
little notebook, which Dong waved away. "I have more interesting
things to read," and he said, "It continues to be a hungry
contraption that discriminates against neophytes. It makes them
believers before they know it." The new cadre venturing this far
had provided residual confirmation of the contraption's continuous
functionality. "I said I marked the spot," said Lau, upon
whose spittle Dong was gazing as it oozed into the ground, as if the
hungry earth was swallowing it. "It's amazing," Lau added,
"the way it never stops working."
"Never
stops," Dong eyed the survivors, and nodded at Lau and everyone
to move off to a small clearing. A tall man, Clad from Dien Bien Phu,
dripping with insider knowledge of all the mysterious deeds, sat
first, opposite Pham Van Dong, and lit a smoke, and he held up a
sticky piece of opium, and it tantalized the group. It was fresh
stuff too. Dong shuddered when Lau intervened like an authoritarian,
insisting they hear from Hanoi first. No doubt he was eager because
he needed rumours to spread, enough with the rumours of rumours. Sew
the net shut then spread different rumours to hide the deeds behind
the first set of rumours. That and whatever else the wise council
commanded.
"I
will talk about proceedings at the First Communist Comintern Congress
of the Democratic Republic of Viet-uh. . ." "The wha --?
The Minh?" "Shut up! CCIC of the DRV -- whatever that
spells. Vietnam Doc Lap Dong Minh League for the Independence of
Vietnam is no more."
He
said carefully to the quizzical faces, "You men of the Viet (uh)
'Cong' have built a rapacious device -- " "The who?"
"Shut
up! -- and it has a gourmand's appetite. It will be fed no matter
what."
Dong
actually felt smug where he sat, thinking, "No wonder they
couldn't get rid of this guy." He just invented a word that will
save his tongue: Cong. And it even has a ring to it. Ha! Fuck you, Ho
Chi Minh!
"Call
yourselves ‘Viet Cong’ from this day forward and do not forget or
your tongue becomes fertilizer for a stinky seedling. Spread the
word."
(He
watched the collective, ‘Huh?' with slight bemusement.) Dong
decided to impose a grumbling diatribe upon the dwindling crowd so he
wilted the jungle confines with a speech about today's miserable
ordeal. (He did after all survive to talk it.) Brows furrowed as they
listened to the resentment and curses about the boat ride.
"You
got a boat-ride?" General Trinh Minh The interrupted obviously
out of envy. Trinh Minh The was the leader of the Dan Xa army, a
particularly nasty offspring of the Cao Dai operating in Tay Ninh.
General Trinh Minh The's gang was brutal in collecting taxes and
using forced labour in a few scattered plantations in east Tay Ninh,
a northern province in Cochin. Cao Dai or derivatives or other
organizations ruled several provinces like Tay Ninh, and executed in
all of them.
"Yes,
one with a motor," Dong replied, "That is how important I
am, so shut your Cao Dai mouth and hear my message of tremendous
importance."
"You
must have done something bad to deserve this treatment," Ha Van
Lau injected, rudely.
"No
trammels?" said Clad of Dien Bien Phu, and he was too amazed,
and it reeked of insult. Dong replied, swiftly, to the re-branded
Viet Communists, "They took them off early if you must know. I
sneered in his face during peerless defacto leader's all-encompassing
summary address. You cannot imagine how all-encompassing. It was like
a Jesuit sermon. I was lucky I didn't drop dead."
"You
sneered in the face of the Nguyen?" Lau rejoined. "I cannot
decide how close to sit. It must be a lie and you resided on this
trail the entire week smoking dope and scaring everything. You are
making up bullshit stories that leave us nothing but false rumours to
spread."
Dong
sighed, "I wish."
They
must know his reputation with the council and ought to show more
respect. Dong had sniffed in peerless defacto leader's face and
lived, so he ignored Ha Van Lau, and continued to speak, "Old
Quoc accused me of incompetencies, then his catamites smacked the
back of my head, but to be honest I never heard mention of Communism
until this week," he lied.
His
survival instinct told Dong it was essential to show a repentant
side, "He doesn't appreciate the few friends that he has left."
"Thinking
like yours will lead us in one direction. We'd be scary decorative
trimming on the contraption or heads-on-sticks in a southern Cao Dai
parade," said the sarcastic Ha Van Lau.
Dong
replied, "Put mine on the longest stick,” brusquely, “I bet
the view would be nice from up there. The contraption will continue
to operate and that is the news from Hanoi."
A
satisfied smirk curled over the lips of Ha Van Lau, which Dong
thought should be a smile. The would-be member of the Politburo
strained an ear for insubordination because Lau would fail to
perceive Dong's burden of responsibility, which was leading the way
to a functional contraption, starting with mapping the way to Tay
Ninh, and mapping was Dong's duty, and that was just the beginning of
the descending spiral. Dong applied diplomacy, "Operating the
contraption is fine. First is the part about moving it."
"Move
what?"
"Move
it?" Clad howled, "You can't even see it!"
Sure,
Clad. Dong glanced at Ha Van Lau and realized he had to endure a lot.
You could not expect much from lackeys since most of them feed the
contraption. Dong's recalcitrant way might be seem to be unexpected
because he did rank higher than his breath and was trusted with high
level intelligence to be delivered with the utmost care. Ten million
go here. Five million go there. Then there are these overtly
licentious magazines to go to the new President of something called
'The Puppet Regime.' None of these cadre needed to ask why Dong
prefers the dark.
Ha
Van Lau should know Dong was feeling disturbed by a missing
turbulence that was normally occurring in his terribly disturbing
fields of endeavor. It was a problem Lau might encounter someday. At
the same time Dong knew Ha Van Lau had marched hundreds of kilometres
through the most horrific and death-defying land in the history of
the world and these troopers weathered the nightmare all the way from
Dien Bien Phu to hear a plan. Lau looked forward to futuristic
horrors of his own design. The youthful 'cadre' would not be
disappointed except perhaps by the aging mentor's rotten attitude.
The
others knowing nothing about the nature of the trap would say it was
impossible to move based on its size. They rarely live long enough to
grasp contraption theory. If they did, well, the contraption would
not be working properly.
"Why
not leave it where it is?" asked Clad of Dien Bien Phu.
Dong
decided to let Ha Van Lau reply, "Where there is no one left to
feed it?" "Why not take it apart," whispered General
The, ". . . end the game and go on to something else?"
The
Dan Xa general displayed a demented southern attitude regarding a
contraption emerging in the south. He thought like the old school
Southerners and mistook the scale of the undertaking. A self-serving
militia like Dan Xa lacked the vision of a nationalist movement, or a
Politburo. These militia could be used by larger organizations.
Southerners like General The saw life as a pursuit of personal wealth
and they were able to do this in the past couple of generations. The
maximum size of Dan Xa body count would be 1,000-member villages of
backward tribes people and no contraption involvement.
Dan
Xa was formed in the 1920s Cochin out of suitcases full of French
francs and the latest firearms delivered by peculiar hooded
'brothers,' and a form of escalation occurred when neighbouring
(somehow non-Dan Xa) hamlets were massacred, but the effort concluded
when a general left Cochin with a suitcases full of francs, or
whatever currency was in vogue. These 'Dan Xa' and other Cao Dai or
Hau Hau sects had been funded by the Catholic Labour Union, which was
Ngo Dinh Diem, and they each figured they ruled until they departed
to open a grocery store in Manila or Hawaii.
"The
Council knows the price," replied Lau, aggressive as he could be
as a future Politburo member. He seemed wise beyond his years if he
knew what he was talking about, which he didn't, so he wasn't.
"Where
will they move it?" asked the Dan Xa general. He watched them
turn to face Dong who made sure of his reply, "The contraption
is moving to a place called South Vietnam." Ha Van Lau was a
northerner with important intelligence and even he failed to hide his
surprise, and Dong realized Lau would be more sympathetic from now
on. Lau glanced at Dong and at the dejected Dan Xa ‘parade marshall
fresh from changing sides at Dien Bien Phu and now fresh out of
sides. Clad of Dien Bien Phu shook his head in apparent disbelief,
but with the amount of dope Clad of Dien Bien Phu smoked he must feel
lucky all the time. The Dan Xa general had plenty of reason to be
nervous about the northern-oriented trap. No modern version of the
trap ever operated in the south.The general knew as well as anyone
when the walleyes entered the south beginning in 1666 they introduced
a mission civilastrice and concocted so many horrible situations that
finally their presence was popularized by Saturday night parades
featuring thousands upon thousands of fresh heads on sticks. These
parades became popular when the botanists agreed the hair is a
despoiler.
The
Cochin history of insane carnage was buried a century ago along with
the deep secrets behind the order and the chaos. General The of Tay
Ninh had contemplated mainly peace in his home province. Until now he
could say the chaos belonged to him. Those days are soon forgotten
since nobody would be left to pay various ad hoc taxes in primarily
amorphous Tay Ninh province, South Vietnam. The first transplantation
of contraption would begin on Dan Xa turf.
"Where
are they going to find the long noses to feed it?" General The
protested. "In Annam you can count them on two, er, one hand."
Dong
had the answer and waved his maimed hand at the 'Viet Cong general,'
"You are whining about the most interesting part of the Nguyen's
plot. He is baiting the trap for the beady eyed long nose Americans.
"The
richly tanned faces went pale white including the normally sanguine
cheeks of Ha Van Lau. A gloomy silence descended on the crowd,
gloomier than the surroundings, at their new prospects. Nothing would
quiet the ghastly forest overrun by screaming beasts and creatures of
all kinds haunted by millions of ghosts.Everyone in the world knew
the Americans, and Dong had recently met one named Dulles who was
loudly proud of his brother for waging atomic war on Orientals.
Dulles told the meeting in Geneva that his brother was prepared to
use it on other Orientals, lots more Orientals, same as Japan. The
Far East, including the tiniest and remotest island dwellers in the
Pacific Ocean, knew about America's exaggerated use of atomic
weapons. In the whole world, only peerless defacto leader Ho Chi Minh
would roll the dice in the face of this. No doubt it hung in the air
because it was the hanging question.
"Wouldn't
we be smart to call ourselves democratic?" General The of Tay
Ninh observed, astutely.
Dong
replied, "Some of us are, and the rest are Communist." "I
would prefer to be democratic," declared Clad of Dien Bien Phu.
"General
The is the only democratic person here." Dong saw a grin on the
general's face.
"I
know there has to be a reason over and above the normal confusion,"
said Ha Van Lau. Dong replied, "Think it over while you look at
these," and he let contents of his sack spill onto the dry moss
at the feet of the Viet Cong. The cross-legged trappers reached out
and grabbed one of the magazines and flipped the colourful pages. The
rapacious readers stared at titillating images and saw only pictures
for they did not understand the words therein. They turned as one to
Dong. "Look at these whores," said Clad of Dien Bien Phu,
"I would need Indian rubber balls to service one of these."
"When do we start?" Ha Van Lau inquired.
Dong
smiled and noticed how they recoiled at his mouth, but attentive they
remained, and seemed to listen dutifully, as they should, "You
are no longer Nationalists seeking independence. Now you are
Communists seeking reunification of the Democratic Republic of
Vietnam." He hoped he got this right or sure as hell it would
get back to somebody important, "The DRV is run by causal
doctrine drafted by Marx Leonix which fits neatly with previous
diarectical tendencies. Got it?"
"It's
Lenin, not Leonix, and he learned it from Leibniz," said Lau,
"and they were just perfecting propaganda for us. Also remember
to roll your 'r's."
Dong
replied, "I'll leave that to Bao Dai and Ngo Dinh Diem,"
and everybody laughed.
"Uncle
Ho ordered the trap to be dismantled in the north of Vietnam."
"Huh?"
said General The of Tay Ninh.
"Listen
close for I shall say it but once. The names Tong King, Annam, and
Cochin are forgotten. Lao Dong is dust and a new people's popular
front will rise in the south to meet the American interloper head-on.
General The, you have two heads. One is the head of your Dan Xa army,
and the second is a defacto head of a new popular front called the
Viet Cong."
The
general barely smiled this time because he was put under the
spotlight and wasn't sure how many warlords would descend to steal
whatever laurels he possessed from either side of the light. Dong
continued, "As head of the Dan Xa army in Tay Ninh, you are
surrounded by Viet Cong, which is an infiltration, and later your
army will encounter parts of General Giap's army from the north, and
some will join but most will die. As leader of a popular front you
lead the Viet Cong and join General Giap's army in the battle against
the Americans. Meanwhile Ha Van Lau will take Clad of Dien Bien Phu
to recruit Annamites in the jungle called Central Highlands. The task
will be to round-up labour to build a road from North Vietnam to
South Vietnam. This road will be called the Ho Chi Minh Highway."
"Trail?"
and the others chuckled at Clad's sardonic suggestion.
"Okay,
trail," he'd give him that one, "Get the pipe ready. The
name of this road will honor the Nguyen for the heights he will
attain after an American President accepts an invitation to barbarize
Vietnam."
The
plan involved tonnes of cement for bomb shelters in Hanoi. Dong
believed he was hitting his stride, "Do not be pessimistic about
a road through the Truong Son," but his disbelieving self found
himself with nothing to add. He needed to provide a few basic
instructions, "General The of Tay Ninh will return south with me
to Con Thein and along the way we draw specific sections of the trap,
I mean map. After Saigon City, I shall return to the Central
Highlands and finish drawing a map." He stared down the
sniggering bastards.
They
surrender the magazines reluctantly at Dong's demand, and Clad of
Dien Bien Phu looked at Ha Van Lau to beckon approval to light the
pipe. It was lit and the men sat back to puff up fantasies of
conquest over the world's greatest barbarian, the democratic United
States of America. Dream big, say peerless defacto leader Ho Chi
Minh. Sweeter dreams began their dance among the group in the dark,
hot, damp, jungle forest of the fearsome Annamite Cordillera, er,
Central Highlands.
End
Chapter One
Chapter two: Confident, and every reason to be
Major
Archimedes Patti, Retired, U.S. Army Air Wing, sat in the
waiting-room of the rundown aerodrome slapping the knee of his tan
slacks with a rolled-up newspaper in a facility squatting outside
Saigon City ringed by rice paddies on the western boundary and squat
. Archie squinted at a sparkle of gleaming chrome in the clear blue
sky and his heavy-lidded eyes focused on the arc of a passenger
airplane winging through the thick air hanging over the French
Associated State of Cochin China. Apparently the plane was not lost
because it flopped to the runway of spongy black asphalt and lumbered
across the field toward the Tan Son Nhut aerodrome.
The
activity with the newspaper made ink stains on his clean trousers so
Archie refrained from whacking the knee any further and refolded the
newspaper and dangled it from his right hand, and he read nothing of
what would surely be an account of lurid destruction occurring
somewhere other than here, occurring every night ‘somewhere in the
region.’ The visible vacancy in the local aerodrome meant no
officials or airline personnel or police or soldiers, nobody was
hanging around. It was deserted. Contrary to what local news
reporters said to dredge up excitement, truth was Cochin China stood
face-to-face with the end of colonial adventures. A handful of
so-called Catholics holding guns owned nothing to brag about, and a
good illustration might be this abandoned aerodrome. The previous one
hundred years of continuously flowing French francs invested the
region with a certain 'nobody-knew-what' and whatever it was was
gone.
The
net result was Archie liked the place more than ever sitting in the
dilapidated building at 8 in the morning, and he stood stiffly from
the wooden bench (interrupting a momentary happiness) to walk to the
screen-door, recalling that he had moved to Cochin China during the
previous decade out of a desire to disappear. He had been at the
centre of world conflict and retired from the American Army Air Wing
after a glorious ride in close rank with the pale horse during World
War II.
Locally
he knew the luck. The cost of labour didn't hurt. For some reason,
he was completely in tune with a morbid malaise hanging over the
local denizens, for they were collectively the most fatalistic people
he had ever met. Archie's modest effort turned up a sizable
enterprise within a reasonably short time. At the same time, Archie
had performed a disappearing act requiring absolutely no magic on his
part in the least mapped region of the world.
An
American entrepreneur about to disembark the big chrome fish was, on
the other hand, indefatigably present. Archie thought it probably by
accident the first time Jimmy Doyle found Cochin China; that he
should find it twice was laughable. Jimmy was persistent in his
pursuit of economic prospects, some of which included business, all
of which included money, and on the first trip to Cochin he unearthed
a then-tiny factory belonging to Archie. Thereafter they became
business associates while the intrepid importer-exporter accidentally
and laughably made Archie rich.
The
last time luck ran Jimmy Doyle into the sub-continent, but not too
far in (because everybody knows nobody comes back from there around
here), Jimmy bragged about an extraordinary consumer economy
manufacturing with centrifugal force flushing the rest of the world
down the toilet, which sounded like the American Dream as Archie had
come to know it. Unbeknownst to him (because reports of IndoChina
reach none but the highest minds in a single, distant,
shitmouth-speaking republic), on this day Jimmy arrived in a defunct
domain. Look far and wide if you dare, Jimmy, there is nothing to see
on the horizon unless you started shopping for opium.
The
sub-continent was overcome by misfortune as a result of important
pieces of infrastructure having been uprooted and transported on
freighters (or otherwise blown up). The currency was worthless and
that was nothing new. Snarly French Colons fled for greener
vineyards, and that was new, not unexpected, and entirely welcome
practically across the board. Colons evacuated, taking everything
they owned, and that was not much. Archie knew a few Colons cowering
in Saigon City who thankfully did little to remind anybody of the
past. He knew these 'walleyes' were terrified. They blubbered about
the inevitable revenge. Supposedly a crude work of unimaginable
suffering waited those who stayed to experience an indescribable hell
that will only grow worse. Archie was sure he missed something in
translation and enjoyed the eerie peace surrounding the south end of
this steaming rump and supposedly everywhere else these days, except
what the newspaper reporters could dredge up, which was probably
entirely habitual behaviour, writing terrifying accounts about the
weather, the road conditions, the j-j-j-ungle.
Looky
here if Jimmy Doyle isn't down for another visit as Archie stood
inside the screen door and watched Jimmy walk down the staircase
alone wearing a hat, encumbered by a single bag of luggage. The
stocky fellow hustled away from the plane and the staircase retracted
and a pilot gunned the engines. The airliner roared and turned back
to the runway propelled by hot air which in turn began whipping
Jimmy's coat-tails and pushing him across the tarmac. The thickness
of the air or a dizzy head made a brief blur out of Archie's hustling
friend.
Archie
saw the sweat erupt visible in patches on a rumpled grey suit, and
Jimmy's eyes were hidden by the hat brim, and he wore a dark stubbly
beard. His wobbly hustle turned into hard labour on the oily black
surface and Archie almost felt sorry for Jimmy except he never asked
him to come here. Archie shoved the screen door for the breathless
fellow who swept through the door to meet what Archie meant as a
knowing smirk but may have resembled a grin, a smile even. The
intense heat would probably frustrate the American who dropped his
luggage as the flimsy door slapped shut. Jimmy stood on a dusty floor
dust and tipped his hat back revealing a sweaty round face with beady
eyes and a sneering smile, and stuck out his right hand.
Archie
tried smiling back and recognized the obligation to shake Jimmy's
hand. He grasped a soaking wet palm. The airliner poised for takeoff
at the far end of the runway. Archie's reached under his left elbow,
"Here, take a read of this," he said, wiping his hand on
the newspaper and handing it over, "It's something new."
Jimmy
unfolded it, "What a fucking headline!" the American
importer-exporter exploded, "Hey Archie! Says here 'U.S. bombed
the gulf!'"
"Hay
is for horses, Jimmy, and there ain't any horses here. You might have
guessed the French ate 'em all.” They called it haute cuisine but
the locals called it Genghis' Revenge. “The horses were a Mongolian
breed that apparently couldn't carry a long nose anyway."
"An
American language newspaper right here, Archie!” Jimmy declared,
“talking ‘bout American shenanigans!" The barrel-chested
man's enthusiastic banter boomed in the shadows of the waiting room
of the aerodrome, "This place can't be all bad!"
"That
is absolutely true,” Archie replied, “and to keep it that way, we
in the visitor's bureau hope your stay will be exceedingly short and
unproductive," and he meant it.
Jimmy
sought Archie's eyes instead of looking at the desolate aerodrome
waiting room, "Since when do we lay eggs around here?"
"Like
that'd ever happen," he replied, though, according to reports,
bombs were dropped a few hundred kilometres northeast of Saigon City.
Alternative reports said Ho Chi Minh used old American planes
borrowed from the leader of a northern neighbour dictating things in
Red China, Chairman Mao, helping Uncle Ho blow off steam or celebrate
something, which always involved a lot of fireworks in this vicinity.
Jimmy
looked confused, his mouth open, glancing at the newspaper, "Says
it happened on a coast of someplace called North Vietnam that runs
smack into a place called South Vietnam. Calls it an ‘incident’
in Tong King Gulf. Apparently both Vietnams are parts of the former
French Associated States of Indochina. Oh I think I get it. Was this
CochinChina one of those associated states? Did it happen right
here?" he exclaimed, "Right fucking here? I can't believe
the luck!"
Archie
wanted to challenge the absurdity of any such conflict underway, and
normally would do so without hesitation, but he was hung over and in
no mood to disgorge on the meaningless stories constantly rumbled
through this feckless society, "Nobody is drawing any maps,
Jimmy; nobody has a pencil. I presume the French took them when they
left but who am I to know? I just live here," and he added, "You
ever thought of taking a taxi?"
Jimmy
sneered, "Taxi? Next thing you know I'll need a hotel room.
Gimme five cents and I'll make the call."
"The
phone is on a boat to Marseilles where it will spit out ‘the
nickel,' along with a bunch of heroin. As for hotels, there’s lots
of rooms, but no beds or dressers or mirrors or curtains or carpets
or elevators or service of any kind."
Jimmy's
unshaven mug of sweat turned quickly into an ocean of sympathy, "I
know what's eating you, friend," (as if), "a drink is the
thing to help a man in your condition. I’m sure you’re keeping
one or two establishments afloat. It's kind of late in the day for
you to get started isn’t it? Thanks for meeting me."
Always
leading with his chin, "Uh huh." If that prick had half as
many things to forget as Archie, not to mention the size of the
things Archie had to forget.
"Look
at me. I forgot how hot it is," Jimmy said, "and I forgot
the smell. What the fuck is it again?" He resumed looking
through the newspaper, "which I know is not you because you're
all cleaned up and obviously still living with that lady. Say,
where’s that dog that follows you everywhere?”
“Dead.”
“Somebody’s
dinner huh. Thanks for bringing me the newspaper. I'll tell you
what, this business is some hell."
Absorbing
a source of useless, inaccurate, and purposely incorrect information
would be right up Jimmy's alley, "Says your old pals in the US
Air Force -- ”
“US
Army.”
“
-- bombed the High-Fong out of Hell Harbour or someplace close. And
guess what?" he wheezed, his voice trailing off slightly, "The
entire paper is cover-to-cover American," and he rustled through
it.
Archie
rarely contemplated the smell anymore, "I bought it, didn't I?"
"And
you did not read it, of course, because you cannot bring yourself to
read it.” Jimmy looked up at the idle fans left behind by the
Walleyes, “So you getting another dog?” Those fans were yet to be
liberated by local demolition experts, which Archie estimated was a
population of 40 million in the immediate vicinity. “We're talking
about it, but I’ll probably get another dog, yes.”
“Hey,
Archie, why are they blowing up toy factories in Haiphong? I'm sure
the world can live without a few rubber balls. Why not blow up
railroads, coal mines, or fuel dumps? There must be something useful
here, besides you, of course."
It
was too early for this shit, "What were they doing last time you
were here?"
"I
don't know."
"Blowing
up railroads, coal mines, fuel dumps."
“Well
they should have bombed this fucking airport is what they should have
done," said an exasperated Jimmy, "Then I never could've
talked the pilot into landing."
Archie
contemplated a wishful notion in Jimmy’s typically surly repartee.
"What
if those factories was the only things left?" he hissed, "I
should think the US Air Force would show more respect than to fly in
and wipe-out my prospects. I might as well get back on that fucking
airplane."
The
men turned to see a flash of chrome across the field climb into the
sky; the plane was good and gone. Archie looked over Jimmy's straw
hat, "Maybe next week. Somebody as lucky as you has to find it
first."
His
friend smacked his shoulder with the rolled-up newspaper and turned
to face the room and perhaps conditions to which it hearkened. "What
if I'm stuck here like everybody else but you?” he said, in a
changing tone, although the echo seemed to be unnerving him, ".
. . the only guy who chooses to live in South East Asia because he
wants to."
"Where
the fuck it that?"
Jimmy
tucked the newspaper under his arm, "Here, I guess. That’s
what they called it when I got to the airport. They said I was going
to South East Asia. And this arrival makes me the second person I
know to come here by choice. First if you count this a new place, you
know, with the new names. Let's get you fixed up, friend. That's
obviously the first order of business this morning. I presume we find
the hair of the dog at the Embassy and tipple a few with old Tom,
right?"
A
chubby face grinned at Archie, "Thanks for driving out this
morning."
“You
said it already,” Archie made feeble attempts to smile and it hurt.
"Change of ownership, friend." The swarthy corruption no
longer served drinks at the Embassy. Didn't matter, he would indeed
crawl into those dark and murky confines of the Embassy.
Jimmy
stuffed the newspaper in his jacket and took off his hat. He left the
suit jacket on. He pulled out a hanky from a pants pocket and wiped
the dark head of thinning hair and round the inside rim of the hat.
He put the hat on and tucked away the hanky and asked for a smoke.
Archie
took out a pack and gave it to Jimmy, "Chesterfields, this is
where they went." He opened the box and took one, returned the
pack, and found his own match in one of the pockets of his shapeless
jacket. He inspected the barren room as he lit up. "Spooky,"
he said, to a flickering light dancing in the shadows of an empty
room in an empty country, not counting the scrupulously counted 100
million occupants standing around doing nothing on the subcontinent,
"A bloody shame too. This could be a useful facility." He
tossed the burning match to the dirty floor.
"Useful?
You gotta be kidding me. Speaking of useful, you're buying."
"Some
things never change." A beam of sunlight shot through a door
that opened on the east side of the building. A Nguyen in a uniform
stalked into the dusky room. "What's this?" asked Jimmy.
They
watched the youthful police officer, cream of the local crop, march
across the room at a brisk pace until he stood in front of Jimmy
Doyle. The man wore the uniform of officer, no doubt a policeman of
rank from Saigon City who ignored Archie and tipped his peaked cap to
Jimmy.
"Are
you Mister Jimmy Doyle?" he asked, in a neighbourly way. They
were the same height which was no confusion to Jimmy, he still
managed to look down his nose, "Who wants to know? How did you
know I was coming?" he asked. Archie and Jimmy were surprised to
be standing in this unscheduled meeting, which Archie wanted nothing
to do with.
A
beaming smile appeared under the cop's peaked cap, and he bowed,
slightly, in Jimmy's direction, "Mister Doyle, allow me to
introduce myself. I am Officer Lo Van Kim of the Saigon City
Gendarmes. We have numerous difficulties in this brand new country of
South Vietnam, some of which are very apparent to all," he said,
and continued to smile. "We have sufficient intelligence,
however, to follow the arrival of an important democratic person like
you, Mister Doyle. I am indeed happy to be here all the time."
A bald faced lie if Archie ever heard one. Absolutely nobody was
happy to be here, more accurately, nobody here was happy.
Archie
had stayed abreast of the smarmy fellow's greeting. He was one of a
local mob said to control Saigon City, a nominal number of Catholics
and a few others who were treacherous in any language, although
perhaps it had more to do with the teachers.
Officer
Lo Van Kim stuck out a hand. Jimmy shook it while he gave his own
head a shake. He snorted, and nodded in Archie's direction, "You
probably know my friend here from all the warrants for his arrest."
"I've
heard of another American on the loose." The two men grinned
like a couple of chimps, and Kim, "We will assume,” resumed,
“your untimely arrival came at the end of a trouble-free journey."
He messed up his grammar and his assumptions, yet Officer Kim chose
to ignore hell on earth, which Archie appreciated.
"Huh?
You're dead right about the arrival," Jimmy agreed.
"I
am not dead about anything."
"It
wasn’t a trouble-free journey. Anything but. You probably don't
know what it's like to be lost over the ocean in an airplane. It's
the shits. Everybody starts to panic, even the crew." Jimmy saw
the opportunity to complain. He puffed the cigarette and turned to
Archie, "Don't forget that eternal stopover in Hong Kong,"
smoke trailing out of his mouth and nose, "where they argue
about bringing you here, saying it doesn't exist and all that crap."
He jerked his thumb at the ceiling, cigarette in hand, "Pilot
got lost. I saw the same island three times. I went to the cabin at
one point to straighten him out. So where did this collaborator learn
how to speak American?"
Archie
cared not about this (or any) affair. He shook his head and stood
back. He crossed his arms, arching away from the two. Jimmy implored
him with beady brown eyes. He usually wears horned rimmed glasses.
Archie said, grimly, "This is none of my business. He seems to
be talking you into something Jimmy. I will leave you to absorb the
losses."
Jimmy
dropped the smoke and stepped on it, "You would. Did you tell
them I was coming?"
Archie
rolled his eyes and chuckled and shook his head raising slight
vertigo which he had to shrug off, then he started to leave and Jimmy
grabbed his shirt, "Hey, wait a minute. I need you to hear
this."
Archie
would have to stay and watch Jimmy sniff for what part was left to
eat in the carcass of a long dead kill, for he was the highest form
of scavenger, an Longnose Businessmen of the American variety. Jimmy
snorted and turned to the crisply uniformed Officer Lo Van Kim, who
waited politely. Jimmy was searching for a needle in a haystack;
maybe something would pop up and stick him.
Kim
gestured the wish to explain, "There was a school in Saigon
City, South Vietnam (which used to be called something else). The
walleye priests taught a few Vietnamese of our choosing who became
the Catholics of Vietnam." Officer Lo Van Kim began a half-baked
story about a ‘metropolitan’ education he received at the
supposed long end of a longnose incursion in the sub-continent. "We
were allowed to speak long nose dialects. I preferred English, I
don't know why. It was not easy to learn," he seemed to boast.
"You must remember these priests were Walleyes who forced
themselves to speak English. I suppose you call it American. They
obviously detested this language and said it makes them spit, but I
believe they hate it because they cannot control their hands when
they talk American, and they accidently slap themselves silly,"
he concluded, smiling broadly, as if the fact was some sort of joke.
"Excuse
me, Mister Doyle," he demurred, "I will dally no further at
the expense of your invaluable time, which is priceless I am sure,"
as Jimmy would agree, "I represent Ngo Dinh Diem, who you know
as President of Saigon Bizarre and Novelty. Soon-to-be-President of
South Vietnam Ngo Dinh Diem said he regrets the threats posed to your
capitalist intentions and goals represented by a wanton destruction
in the gulf last evening."
Archie
knew the rat infested factories in Haiphong hadn't produced a rubber
ball since 1930. He knew the U.S. army aircraft borrowed from
Chairman Mao were scooped up by the Red Chinese after they declared
themselves communist, which Archie believed was another term for
bankrupt. It came as no surprise that Officer Kim twisted the facts.
Archie knew for instance that Emperor Bao Dai had appointed Ngo Dinh
Diem President a couple of years ago on July 7, 1954. Lo Van Kim's
interpretation alluded to a phony election being conducted to
increase Diem's importance, or possibly meant the conspiracy of
thieves was falling apart. It seemed too soon for that, for they had
stolen nothing, for there was nothing to steal.
A
pair of young eyes twinkled beneath the peak of the cap when the cop
produced something in his hand, which was a bulging envelope he
offered to Jimmy. "He told me to give this to you," said
Kim, who smiled so brightly..
Jimmy's
mouth hung open when he accepted the package from his new pal. The
cop saluted casually, ever smiling, a sort of perpetual bright light
this guy, Officer Lo Van Kim. Archie figured if he wasn't Catholic he
was at least a member of the Binh Xuyen, an urban sect financed by
the Catholic Labor Union. He might be son of General Lo Van Vien who
used to be head of a Chinese-Vietnamese coalition running Cholon
(sister city to Saigon City). Binh Xuyen was a tough bunch of tax
collectors. Archie knew Kim's dad recently retired to Waikiki, an
oft-repeated disassociation with the region, get rich quick and
leave. Archie didn't know why and didn't care.
Jimmy
watched the Saigon officer spin smartly and march out the way he
came, raising another cloud of dust. He stared where the cop had been
leaving Jimmy to finger the package and tuck it in the breast pocket
of his suit. The jacket might be getting a bit hefty.
"Did'ja
see those teeth?" Jimmy remarked to empty space.
"Don't
be digging them out just yet, Jimmy. He's still breathing."
The
head with the hat on top spun to Archie, "You kidding, Patti? A
guy with a mouthful of gold like that could be a friend of mine. The
question is, what else would you need? I know where to find a bank in
Saigon City. It's in his mouth. How does he hold his head up? I don't
know either."
Archie
never gave the disappearing banks a second thought. Jimmy bent to
pick up the suitcase, "Let's head to the Embassy. Now it's me
who needs a drink," he said, and lunged away carrying the
suitcase and a briefcase. "Long nose dialects? It has to be
those frog teachers, right? Follow the collaborator to Saigon City!"
he hollered. "That still has the same name, don't it?"
Archie
followed the friend, “Show you the way? By the way, there's no
reason to be here, Jimmy. There is nothing after the French filled a
convoy of slow boats. You should be happy for the Walleyes that got
away and hope they find nice asylums with rubber rooms and fluffy
pillows in France. It is quiet for everybody now. It was until you
arrived."
"What
do you expect?" Jimmy said, huffing at shadows. "My friend,
it shows how much these people suffered under those ignorant walleyed
priests. Everybody in world knows the American language is not a
dialect and especially not a dialect of that shit-mouth French."
Jimmy opened the door and walked out of the building.
Archie
slipped on sunglasses and pulled the door open for himself. The red
dust on the horizon was a cloud made by the Saigon City police
vehicle. "So, august traveling scholar, where did your language
come from?"
Jimmy
Doyle thought he could lollygag until he was slammed by the brilliant
sunshine, "Oh, let's see," he said, "my guess would be
Germany," the astounding heat would continue to take him by
surprise. "This is impossible. What time is it?" he
bitched, and pushed his hat forward to shade his eyes, and he leaned
forward into the curtains of sundrenched hot air. He trudged directly
at the sun, "How can it be this fucking hot?" he crabbed.
"And what stinks? It smells worse than shit!"
Nice
company this guy, no complainer. Archie walked with boots crunching
on the gravel across the vacant driveway and parking lot to the
vehicle, wishing he could ignore the stout whiner but knowing this
was just the beginning. He replied, "German is you on your
mother's side, right?"
"Patti,
I'm pure American!"
Most people would doubt if any such thing existed, and Archie
strolled past his friend with that argument in mind. "Your new
police-friend learned English was a mixture of French and German, and
who knows what else, forced to speak with aboriginal Brits by a band
of burned-out, forgotten Romans, who basically created English out of
a porridge mish-mash, and they never expected to call it American."
He
might have added French had the greatest influence in vocabulary,
about 70 per cent, but having spent so much time watching these
Walleyes up close in recent years he hated to give them credit for
anything. "The English gave up the language to Americans but we
know how and where it started," said Jimmy, instantly baked and
suddenly too spent to argue.
The
jeep sat under the frying sun gathering heat and dust. Archie
ignored Jimmy and threw heavy suitcase in the back of the squeaking
quarter-ton vehicle and dust flew, but the heat stayed. Jimmy dropped
his bag in the back too, and briefcase on the seat, "For a guy
who can't read, you sure know a lot."
Archie
walked around and climbed in the driver's seat and hung over the
steering wheel watching Jimmy stare at the distance or at the wafting
air perhaps, and Archie wished he would get moving.
This
dumpy friend took off a wet jacket, which he folded and placed on the
back of the sizzling seat. Jimmy Doyle seemed to compose for a moment
in the miasma of heat. He fiddled with the briefcase to stuff Diem's
letter in it. "I'll open it later," he remarked, absently,
and threw the briefcase on the floor and coughed at the dust. He bent
over to pick up the suitcase. It was some kind of struggle. He held
the newspaper with the hand he grabbed the windshield with, and
pulled himself aboard in a heaving grunt. Maybe he had a condition.
Archie sat back, if so, it was sure to bloom in this climate.
He
kicked the clutch and shoved the long stick lever in first gear and
kicked the floor-starter with his right boot. The engine roared and
he hollared, "Right you will, pal! Your friend Diem sends a lot
of one-word letters! You know! The kind that even I can read! BOOM!"
Without warning he fell into a fit of laughter, kicked the gas,
dropped the clutch and cranked the wheel, "Those kind!"
Jimmy
winced and stiffened his neck as they disappeared in a cloud of dust,
and Archie continued, "Gee friend, you picked a rotten time to
find Cochinchina!" Then he paused to think of a better time, and
pointed the jeep straight, and smiled. Four tires spinning in the
dirt made a magnificent cloud, "Besides nothing going on, you
get a letter from Ngo Dinh Diem! Glad I never got one of those! Don't
open it and you should be okay."
They
emerged from the cloud and Archie snapped the wheel to correct the
direction of the Jeep. Saigon City was a few minutes ahead.
Jimmy
took it off and used his hat on the dust. He put the hat on and
pulled it against the hard hot wind. With no muffler on the engine
Jimmy was heard to bellow, "I forgot about this bloody red dust.
Ngo Dinh Diem ain't going to blow me away, buddy! He's democratic
like us! He knows what it takes to get a bankruptcy booming again!
For instance, where does a guy find those kinds of frogskins, Mister
Sole Remaining Taxpayer?"
Archie
would admit the truth, "American consumers!"
“Ngo
Dinh Diem must have seen what happened when I passed over your
propriety! He needs that magic to drop on him! He needs a load of
spondulics!" Jimmy plunged a thick left forefinger into the
thick air. "That's what he needs!" Archie saw black hair
waving from knuckle to elbow. The truth and the whole truth, "You're
the load!"
This
friend's head agreeably bobbed, "You bet!"
There
was a hot wind and it was no relief. The rough road was a partly
paved strip undulating across dyked land, a few houses lined the
road, and in the surroundings everything seemed to be under the
cultivation of rice. Jimmy quit reading the newspaper. No doubt he
learned a few things first, "What's the name of the newspaper?"
"It's
called the Dragon's Breath Monitor." He probably learned
witnesses identified the bomber aircraft. Somebody said the planes
bore the distinctive black and green markings of the democracy's most
famous fly-boys. Archie knew the story had its Confucian side of
course. This came from the city of Hanoi (Hanoi? Non! De rien! Never!
Dey mus' change d'name). The infernal escapade was given credit to
the Politburo (formerly Lao Dong People's Party).
According
to Viet Communist rumour, the story goes, Defacto Leader Ho Chi Minh,
defacto chairman of the newly conspired Politburo, confessed to be a
Communist obtain a loan of Chinese bombers. He painted them Flying
Tiger colours and sent them to bomb the last Walleyed rubber ball
factory in South East Asia. This defacto chairman of a purported
principality of Confucian Nationalist Viets cum Communists called the
act of aggression a "prophesy." It was sent "Special
Delivery" to the corrupted puppets and twisted amoral Vietnamese
running South Vietnam. Archie had a radio tuned to an international
news agency, which had reported the Blameless defacto leader
elaborating, "It demonstrates the blessings of a conceited
malefactor beating an adopted son. The son should expect more of
these in the future. Cao Dai prepare to grow thick skin."
The
Nguyen said collaboration-bent South Vietnamese will come to
appreciate the drubbings. Cao Dai appreciate what they deserve deep
down, he said. "Collaborator South Vietnamese deserts will be
delivered Marxist-Leninist-style by guys in purple pyjamas,
compliments of the Vietnamese Communists of South East Asia's
People's Liberation Front."
The
defacto leader promised more incitement but these might come later,
even 50 or 100 years. And everyone knew that was a lie. Archie hated
to think the hidden investor who deceived the whole world about this
place for 400 years was promising further undo-ables with similar
convolutions in the immediate future. He hoped it might take time to
think things up? Don't be expecting it on paper either. The Communist
Manifesto was a mere pamphlet. No question the nouveau Politburo
struggles to find toilet paper, typical of former Papist-run
bankruptcies.
"Purple
pyjamas?” Jimmy exclaimed. “Is this guy insane-or-what?"
"Everybody
wears those."
"This
Blameless mucker!"
"I
heard it on the radio. Jimmy, it's not your first taste of
confusion!" Slightly chagrined, then, Jimmy sat back and took in
the sight and smell and the sound. One sight - - verdant. One smell
-- impossible to describe without gagging. One sound, of the roaring
engine Jimmy Doyle glanced back and his beady eyes grew wide at the
size of the rosy coloured plume of dust.
His
guts could take the heaving ride no longer. Archie stopped the truck
halfway to the city and stepped out. He bent over the shallow ditch
and heaved-ho. Ever-barbaric Doyle loudly cackled, it tickled him
pink. "Fertilizer from America! Make those yields bigger and
bigger! But you gotta get it in the fields! Shoot farther!" This
depression occurring to Archie was his own joyless creation. Thus he
felt depressed but in sympathy with no one. He slouched back to the
driver's seat, and replied, "Cram it," and drove off, left
hand on the wheel. He deftly tried to wipe his right hand on Jimmy's
white shirt. His friend greeted him with a beefy forearm, a, "Screw
you," and a change of topics. "Talked to 'Betty' the other
day on the way to the airport -- " Jimmy Doyle droned, loudly
Archie
interjected, "You never take a taxi?"
"
-- Uh, no, Patti, I do not! And you know what he said?" Jimmy
said, "Archimedes Patti is the quintessential American assassin!
'Betty' that's you! Pure Death! That's you, old buddy!" Jimmy
reached over to pat his head. "By reputation and fact!"
Archie stomped the gas pedal and jerked the wheel. The little truck
lurched under the commotion and Jimmy's arm swept off in an harmless
arc.
"Yeah?
well," Archie replied, "Isn't former Chief Naval Officer
Admiral Harold R. Stark more of an assassin than a judge of
character? Didn't he knock off a dead president?" Archie knew
Admiral Stark from a debriefing on the Battle of Okinawa, and,
furthermore, he knew the over-the-brinksman had ruled the US
government by propping up FDR long after the President's mortal coil
had ceased to coil.
Jimmy
argued, "'Betty' made a great president out of an old cadaver.
How can you knock achievement? The Russians didn't make Lenin good
cadaver, never even tried to pretend he was still alive." Jimmy
bragged about spending hours in steam baths surrounded by luminaries
of the naval cabal ruling Washington D.C., including old founding
pirate 'Betty' Stark and his partner in crime, Admiral Ernest King.
They were the old school in America's capital. 'Betty' Stark, oldest
of the sharks, was their only mutual acquaintance. Former C.N.O.
Stark led the coup to the highest office in democracy. To this day,
no doubt, he held a gun to the President's ear.
"Is
it still on?"
"Of
course. It will never go off. They carry h-bombs everywhere, even on
submarines. Don't be fooled by the General. Nixon has gun to his head
named Allen Dulles."
"Sure,
Jimmy." Productive irradiating wet fields glistened lively
green, sparkling with a glory seen nowhere in the world, and it went
as far as the eye could see. Except in one direction. Saigon City
loomed on the horizon. Small was the number of Americans up on the
geography of this rotten smelling pit. Archie and this dumpy friend
of his were counted amongst a smattering of Americans who knew Saigon
City as the "Cultured Pearl of the Orient." During the
French interlude, a tragic half-millennium, the cocky Walleyes,
rapacious and indeed purely ravenous, embarked on missions of purely
civilizing intentions. Footloose gangs congregated in a stronghold
they named Saigon City. The darkness of Cochinchina grew from the
banks of the Saigon River. Archie relied on his Viet understanding
for the truth of what horribly grew on this corner of the earth. The
incursion by the French was started by Jesuit Monsignor Francois
Pallu who arrived in 1664. He began the apostolic work of the Society
of Foreign Missions. He established the East India Company. Two
hundred years later with millions upon millions of Confucian Viets
buried in gigantic slurry pits, nobody who lived dared to tell the
horrible story, or even remember the place existed.
The
"cultured" refuge of 400 years of Jesuit mission
civilastrice sprawled in the middle of a wide and fertile basin. The
basin afforded clear fields for defensive canonizing fire in every
direction. Avengers might descend on Saigon City from any direction,
since millions of dead ancestors cried from the odors emanating from
the earth surrounding the place. What a miscellany of American
experts imparted was that Saigon City represented a lonely exhibition
of winning French strategy in the region. The pathetic city evolved
into an epicentre of corruption involving everything in Cochinchina,
most of which was gone. Archie entered on a north-western escape. He
steered his way onto Tu Do Boulevard, the main street. He roared down
the wide thoroughfare snaking the length of Saigon City, not even
following the river. The boulevard was sparsely populated as was the
rest of a city with nothing to do. It used to host a major crowd on
bicycles and on foot. Archie drove one of the scant number of gas-
powered vehicles in Cochinchina. He also had a set of the best tires
on earth, Michelins.
Way
up the street Jimmy might see a throng of craftsmen raising a
building. This labour worked on the strength of a popular Emperor
(cough) Bao Dai-generated rumour -- not the prospect of worthy wages,
of which there was none -- and a construction site rose above the mud
and dust. Archie scoffed at the local Catholic or Cao Dai
scuttlebutt. It said this peculiar structure, the roof half-a-sphere,
and, true, a big finger pointing up, was specially designed with
mystical powers to create a new world based on the world's most
robust currency. Catholics said the music would echo beautifully
under the dome. Archie figured the 95 per cent Buddhist majority
wondered who was Ngo Dinh Diem lying behind rumour(s) and therefore
the building. Diem presumably saw others like it during an escape to
the world.
Archie
made a breath-taking U-turn in front of the construction site. For
some reason, none of the workers were there this morning. He bumped
across a broad median to park beneath a leafy tree imported from
France to make the place look homey. He came to a jolting halt in
front of the severe-looking bomb-shelter looking structure containing
the Embassy Lounge. Jimmy demanded the whole story on the
great-looking new building across the street. Archie refused to
impart one word of the bullshit. He jumped off his seat and loped
around the fender, and explained, "Haven't you ever seen a
concert hall?" out the side of his mouth. The thick humid air
produced a doorman. A little doorman, dressed in a garish yellow
suit, "Vow net parkie paw la! Paw la!" squawked in French.
Archie brushed aside the rabid little man, with a compliment, "Nice
jellow-jacket," but he felt like cussing further, instead kept
strolling past the confrontation. The doorman twisted around, "You
Ves-Spit...."
"Hey,
Jimmy. The urgent tone of voice should tell you about the lack of
opportunities. I believe he's happened onto you though."
Jimmy
rummaged beside Archie's dusty truck. "What about your other
habits?" said Jimmy, dripping sarcasm, "Have you cut down
on any of those?" Archie snorted at the door and tucked his
shades in the matching tan shirt, "Like I'm an opportunity.
You're the opportunity, Jimmy. Don't forget it."
"I
won't if you won't."
"I
might." He disappeared inside the high-walled single-storied
cinder-block structure to see if it was still uglier inside.
The
sour doorman stood and glowered at this shorter and perhaps more
corporeal American. Jimmy pretended sympathy for the sadly attired.
He decided it wasn't much variation on the local colour. He waved the
disgusted doorman over to the jeep. He recalled a few piasters left
from the previous trip. He wanted a small something in exchange. A
few hours of Jimmy Doyle's undivided attention. The doorman
approached watching him dig in his pants. Jimmy fished out a five
hundred piaster note. It failed to attract due attention so he waved
it. He stared the squinting doorman up and down, finally making eye
contact, raised his eyebrows, and bobbed his head at the truck. He,
Jimmy Doyle, transmitted a telepathic image of the worth of the
luggage. The small, inevitably tanned doorman blinked his fleshy eyes
finally. His hairy head gave a slow nod and he stepped closer. Then
he raised his yellow arm and pointed at the truck behind Jimmy. Jimmy
generously tucked the bill in the lapel pocket under that short nose,
and declared, "I'll give you more! You watch the bags!" The
doorman sighed, and Jimmy's nose filled with stench. They eat a lot
of fish around here.
Jimmy
surrendered blindly to thirst and stumbled past a waving nipper. He
turned back and took his briefcase and jacket and spun around to
enter the building. For a moment he could see nothing, though he felt
something. Air conditioning. He smelled something, the kitchen a
source of powerful emanations. It smelled better outside. He glimpsed
Patti's silhouette hopping in front of the bar getting a transaction
underway with the bartender. Patti would enjoy the service much as
the price. The place was practically deserted.
It
surprised Jimmy to spot one customer at a rear corner of the room.
How propitious if that is American press attache slash intelligence
officer Robert Amory. In the far right corner in a booth lit by a
wall lamp the red-headed Amory sat alone with his back to the room,
hiding his guilt in morning libation. Jimmy slung the jacket over his
shoulder and strolled between a bunch of stinking cloth- covered
tables. He drew close enough to hear the curly-haired press attache
slash intelligence officer talking out loud to himself. This might be
a concern: "Hai-phong? The gulf of Tonkin? No way! The American
Air Force hasn't ever been there, ever. They wouldn't know where to
find it. I'm surprised to find myself here." What a stupid
cocksucker.
"The
US miltary was here sipping opium tea in forty-three," announced
Jimmy. A tall rumpled Amory oddly showed no inclination to turn and
face Jimmy Doyle. The drooping shoulders might have rolled as if you
could tell. The elongated nose on this simp carried a pair of
spectacles, which he pushed up with a finger and weakly cleared his
throat. He dropped his head meekly. The faint-coloured bony fingers
clutched or scattered papers on the table. Jimmy stood back to give
the red head a decisive dressing down. He took a deep breath, and
bellowed, "Americans know where it is! What the fuck am I?
Haven't you read a fucking newspaper?" Oh shit he forgot his
copy in the jeep. "Aren't you the press attache slash
intelligence officer?" His dangling coat covered most of the
briefcase clutched under his arm. He was pissed about forgetting the
Dragon's Breath Monitor in the truck.
Wasn't
the idiot curious to see who inculcated him? Amory eventually cranked
his head around. Oh for gawd's sake is that a mask? Two fuzzy globes
stared through Jimmy Doyle like he was nothing but a figment of his
own imagination. These dancing globes fluttered over the bridge of
Amory long pointed nose. A loss of sanity burned a pained personage
behind two broad panes of glass. Jimmy fixed himself a grin, and
tipped his hat. An explanation was required for the dissolution in
that former image of God. When Robert grinned back, able to gesture
the surprised visitor ahead, hope sprang to mind. So Jimmy stepped
toward the booth, and sideways. He took another disconcerting look.
Close inspection made it clear; It was too soon for hope.A quivering
grin was pasted on Robert's thin lips only slightly different shade
from his acetone face. The magnified eyes, below the irregular nose,
and you would swear those teeth were canines. This somebody was in
dire need of a conversation. One where he does the talking. It should
be from a couch, beside a guy taking notes.
Jimmy,
far from medically inclined, said, "So reports of South East
Asia are true," he adjured, "It does get to you in a big
way. Here's the illustrious Robert Amory, American Democracy's
stalwart defender. I hear you guys blowing the horn in this septic
dump. But hold on. Horatio is a babbling idiot! How long you been in
South East Asia, Robert? Isn't it time you told somebody you were
here."
"Where?"
"Here
in South East Asia."
"Where
is South East Asia?"
"Under
your ass."
"Oh,
oh, oh. . . . No, Sir. No way. You do not want to tell anybody about
this place." Amory peeked away, possibly to spend a second
considering why not. He looked about to take an uncertain infant
step, the kind of infant Spartans dashed early, that's how humane
democracy had become. The thirty-ish, chicken-as-shit Naval
intelligence civilian interpreter/press attache wore mystifying
spectacles and a thick tweed sports coat. Which question would he
answer first? Jimmy already asked three and got nothing but groaning.
He shook his head at the condition of the poor blotchy skin stretched
over asymmetric angles comprising Amory forlorn face. The press
attache slash intelligence officer kept staring at the empty corner.
His thin hair-line checked an impossible slope of forehead. The rest
of his small misshapen noggin was capped by heapish flopping curls of
dusty red hair. In further insanity, Amory giggled and subsequently
wiggled his head, and the curls. What was he laughing at? Who cares.
Fuck this is unnerving. He could be giggling at the insolvency of the
region, which Jimmy Doyle was more than prepared to fix.
“You
know," Amory suddenly stammered, and sniggered, "how long,"
and snorted, "Mister Doyle." He insisted on giggling at the
immutable wall, "You remember how we dropped in on the same
plane? It was a few months ago, wasn't it? Remember?" Amory
turned to face the room. He assumed a whiny, accusatory tone of
voice, "I believe I have you to thank," he said, when he
punctuated using a skewed fore-fingernail which came uncomfortably
close to jabbing Jimmy's protruding torso; "I recollect how they
never would have found the place without you on board."
Doyle
replied, "No such thing ever happened." The press attache
slash intelligence officer gave the illusion of eye contact with
those large blurry smears falling in line. Jimmy contemplated a tiny
beam of distant barlight bouncing off the glass way above an awful
grimace. Amory wiggled his head and pointed at the opposite bench.
"Have a seat. I could use the company. Anybody."
Jimmy
shrugged with a sigh and decided to sit. What choice did he have? He
shifted to slough off the coat and briefcase. “I did not arrive on
the same plane as you. You were here already when I came last time."
As he took the seat on the opposite bench he shoved his stuff to the
wall, and said, "Do I have to?" He kept the hat on.
"Nice
hat."
"Sure."
"Is
it the same one from the last trip?"
"Maybe
it is the same hat," and he waved to an anxious waitress,
good-looking woman too, she was. He noticed Robert didn't notice. And
he remembered not to be overly surprised. The attache already asked
him once if he could suck Jimmy's dick. When this kind of idiot asks
you an utterly unspeakable question, you ignore the question, and
finish what you have to do with the idiot. Jimmy Doyle, reluctantly
introduced his right hand to Mister Robert Amory to no response.
It
was vexing and bewildering to stare at those unblinking ophidian
orbs, bleary slits freezing each landscape in a relentless search for
a meal. A lizardly grimace supplanted Robert's repulsive grin.
Perhaps a large-enough insect skittered on the wall behind Jimmy
because he continued staring at the wall behind Jimmy, who purposely
held up his hand. He continued to stare down the slimey lizard, while
his uncompromising half-smile might become compromised. Until at
length Amory recognized the extended hand and in a suddenly human
gesture he took Jimmy's hand, and hung on; sitting a short breath
away from a punch in the mouth didn't he know? When Robert let go,
the shoulder-less arms dropped pathetically to his sides. It was
stressful to think this represented America anywhere in the world,
but, he quickly recalled, where he was.
This
fucking clown felt obliged to apologize, "I'm so sorry, Mister
Doyle.” Good for him. Dis-uh-oriented at the moment. I hardly slept
a wink last night. I hardly ever sleep here. I find it hard to sleep
anymore, Jimmy." The disinformant's eyes blinked to continue the
deception of humanity sitting there. Jimmy watched this short-lived
impression die another distasteful death. The big, skinny,
twisted-boned man's eyes twitched into focus at Jimmy. "I hate
the bugs. They're huge!” he squealed, in a pig-loud falsetto, He
leaned close to Jimmy to say something hopefully in a lower tone of
voice.
The
invert wiggled on the bench cushion. "It happened so suddenly
this morning,” Amory dropped his voice to a hissing whisper, “Who
could have said we'd be involved in Cochinchina affairs?" He
enjoyed that cushion action too much, "Would you sit back and
sit still?" Jimmy pleaded. And he threatened, "I could move
to another table. I am friends with the only other person drinking in
this bar." He glanced around looking for Patti. Amory sat back
and made a face like a frown, "No! No! Please!" The bleary
globes narrowed by half. He tried to moue. A red cocktail glowed on
the table.
"Listen,
Mister press attache slash intelligence officer. Everything involves
America," said Jimmy, addressing the obvious to the long-stemmed
glass, "and it doesn't matter where you are. Cut out the local
concoctions."
"I
never drink."
"Then
take it up. Take lessons from Patti."
The
grizzled air leg vet was hunched over the bar. Jimmy hoped he got
along with the bartender. Jimmy needed to stay in this
air-conditioned comfort for awhile. Plus, in the face of this
wretched interview, Jimmy longed for company. You could bring along
the hairy dog. Feed it this Amory asshole. "Is it a bad sign if
this morning I needed one real bad?"
In
an absolutely involuntary act Jimmy encouraged the knave down the
path of self-destruction, "Not necessarily."
Robert
leaned close a second time, "We can't wake up Horsey. I can't
understand how he sleeps in the middle of the day."
"I
heard he does, sleeps through calamity too."
"He's
still snoozing. Everybody wants the US to take credit. Gee whiz,
Mister Doyle, America was never-ever mentioned in these parts before
this morning. We hated the French to say it because it makes them
spit." Jimmy felt snarly and watched the impossible angles of
Robert's body twitch rather erect. A haunting grimace returned to his
face, "Now the local paper," he moaned, "is unh,"
and gasped, "unh," and his forehead disappeared,
"American."
Amory
tossed his head back to expose a gaping maw mercilessly to Jimmy's
unavoidable inspection. He endured for the sake of intelligence. It
was the definition of ironic that Amory would be a source of
intelligence, would be employed by a body called Intelligence. Amory
helplessly splayed his arms. Jimmy decided to believe it took an
horde of Amory's' to gather anything resembling intelligence.
"And
who's on the front page?"
At
least he gathered that much.
Who
would work for the fucking navy anyway? Robert assumed a slightly
feathery tone and leaned forward with his rake-like arms exposed on
the table, hairless wrists sliding out of the cheap garment. "Tell
me where you heard of Cochinchina, Jimmy," he demanded. Mister
Doyle, to you, schmuck.
Jimmy
wiggled a pinkie in his right ear. The very bothersome noise was this
piece of shit talking. Amory leaned back and the itch terminated.
Jimmy withdrew his pinkie. He used both hands to adjust his hat. One
of them he restrained from hammering Amory's face, "That,"
he replied, "is none of your business. And could I suggest you
keep your inside information on the U.S. envoy to yourself. Horsey
acts the sleepy head be he's always ready for a wicked ride. Listen
Amory, and I fucking mean it. Duck. I'm on the winning side. The side
that pays your salary. Did you take a vacation to this fucking hole?
I don't take vacations either! I don't have time to pay your salary
and take vacations."
Amory's
perplexed face went from expressionless to slightly solemn,
guilt-ridden, and ashamed, but probably not about his lack of
intelligence.
"You
make it sound extra bad," he replied, blithely, "Frankly,
what did you lose? Those fake factories haven't turned out a ball in
two decades. Furthermore, I checked it out. The American Air Force
probably didn't put you out, Jimmy. They didn't do it in my opinion."
There
was some kind of spine increasing across the table.
"That's
right." At least he was sitting straighter. "Tell me this.
If we knew, would you know?"
"Huh?
I don't know. The story is confusing, also, an American newspaper
appeared for the first time this morning. And, by the way, that is
the first sign I'm in the world. You cannot believe the things going
on here," he wheezed, "It is desolation without end. I have
no words to describe it. You do not need a Nuclear Bomb. And this is
the place to put your nasty feelings."
Jimmy
interrupted, "I saw it all last time I was here. Patti says its
gone."
"Tell
Cao Dai."
"Huh?"
"Tell
Cao Dai. Heads on sticks, Jimmy. Cao Dai parades, fresh stuff too.
Heads on sticks. Jimmy, and these people are smiling during these
parades. Long parades. Miles of smiles and heads on sticks. Jimmy.
Don't tell anybody. We can't tell anybody. Heads on sticks. I have no
idea what they do with the bodies. But they sure smile about heads on
sticks."
Hmm.
Bit more than he needed to hear. "Where's this?"
"Uhh,
I believe the Cao Dai lives on depopulating Tay Ninh. But I don't
know why. And you don't either. The intelligence on Cao Dai is
simple. Nice Catholic boys. Got it?"
"Sure,
I'm one. But listen," and Jimmy risked it to lean close himself,
"I've been over the whole world," but he quickly backed
away, but he counselled, "This place is no different."
"Yes
it is. No place on earth has those kinds of parades but they are
major entertainment here, Jimmy. Long parades with fresh heads on
sticks every Saturday night all over the gigantic province of Tay
Ninh."
"Parades?
Every Saturday night? So it's a great place," Jimmy agreed. "Try
remembering you are an American. You are going to master the nasty
turns around here. Maybe not you. But I will! Where do I come from?
What do I stand for? An' I want to hear you say it loud and clear!"
"You're
an American! You're from the democracy of America! You create the
highest form of nuisance in the new world!"
"Aw
you worthless piece of shit!"
"First
with the worst! Then clean up this mess! Any more questions?"
"Nothing
from the dozey U.S. envoy?"
"Nothing."
"Good.
Don't wake him up till I've had a full breakfast. I don't want to
miss anything."
"You
know he will not like it. He will try to cover it up," Amory
said, "or else top it. Everybody in the ranks knows Outerpier is
the go to guy for starting wars. But he had nothing to do with what
happened last night in the gulf to those delapidated toy factories."
"Horsey
has a couple of boatloads of seasoned Marines,” said Amory.
“He
what?”
“A
big boat loaded with everything. But the problem is no word from
Washington D.C.. We never hear from Washington D.C.. The White House
doesn't know we're here. Doesn't know where here is,"
Amory
was whiney and annoying, not the best reason to get him the fuck out
of the way and find somebody who can do it better. The annoying
fucking clown stared down on a pile of paper and shook his head,
forlornly, "The French kept this place a total secret. Now
they're gone. You know it has never appeared on a map? National
Geographic never has pictures of Cao Dai parades. The Walleyes took
away everything."
Jimmy
iterated, slowly, "The French did no such thing. What would they
take? By the way, try to remember parades are celebrations? Do not
deny people their joy. The White House knows you're here,
furthermore. You keep getting paid, don't you?"
"Nope.
They said they'd pay us if we come back." (If he gets out; but
then this scum will harden and adhere under a table right in this
Greek-conceived blind pig.) "We've got what we need, Jimmy. But
the White House don't know diddly about this place. I'm still
wondering how you found out."
"Oh,
didn't you know? I followed you! Robert, they know about South East
Asia. In Washington D.C. I chatted with 'Betty'Stark before I came,
he knows lots about this place. I'm sure plenty of Americans do."
"Oh
yeah? Who is she?"
Jimmy
blinked, "Huh?" astonished by the depth of this man's
deception. He made the perfect propagandist. On the other hand, he
had to keep breathing to spew out deception. Jimmy sat back far as he
could; pushed up his hat. He sighed and pondered an impossible task.
How to encourage somebody on assignment someplace like South East
Asia.
Start
with the obvious you-got-a-long-life-ahead-of-you speil. "How
old are you, Robert?"
Jimmy
knew the futility of engrossing himself in this ridiculous task, and
he did not get far. The pin-headed red-head glimpsed over the place
where his shoulder might be, when somebody came through the front
door of the lounge.
Amory
scooped up his papers in one motion and crept to his feet to Jimmy's
great relief. At the same instant he seemed to caroom between the
tables like a bad drunk. He carried valuables like an obnoxious
Priest off to spit on the plate. (After that they shine em up and
pass em around for everybody to spit.) Amory nearly rammed into Patti
and this narrowly escaped certain death. Archie might be feeling
sociable after chatting with the bartender.
"Hey,
Robert!" Jimmy yelled, "what're you talking to yourself
for?" Patti rounded the last table and took aim at the vacant
bench. "For company,” Archie interjected, “Nobody but you
can stand him." He slid in place, "You two got something in
common?"
"Fuck
you, Archie. He isn't that bad."
Who
said that? Jimmy took off his hat and cupped an ear, "Press
conference this afternoon,” he heard Amory yelp, “Open to
everyone! Official announcements! Be there at two o'clock! Be on our
side of the fence. Best be early."
Jimmy
mumbled, "Say no more, “Please,” to himself.
Patti
hovered protectively over a pair of tumblers slopping with whisky. “I
put 'em on your tab.” And they were for him. He felt better enough
to grin at Jimmy now. Yes, friend, free stuff works better. Jimmy
smiled, but he was preoccupied by the sinewy advance of Claude
Desautels. The elegant French newspaper magnate was the reason for a
swift Amory departure. A flaccid attempt by Desautels failed to
arrest the furious exit. ("Nothing to add! Nothing to add!")
Now The French Colon decided on meeting these two Americans. There
were not a lot of these to gawk at.
"Do
you min' if I sid 'ere?" he asked, nonchalantly.
"Archie,
would you sit over here and give the man your seat? Si'down,"
replied Jimmy. "I've got a few questions I want to ask."
Patti
sighed and complied with the lassitude of a man a the perpetual
condition slouching toward catatonic. Desautels took Patti's seat
while Patti rearranged the tumblers. The trio engaged in a terse
round of introductions including brisk handshakes.
"I
bed d'envoy will be taking credid for d'bombin,” the French was
first to speak, “when he wake up. He goin' to be udder'y erroneous.
I'm nod going to dat press conference. I'm going to duck id. Bud I
tol' a few of my frien'z aboud id. You gen'l'men should be tol' dis
fac': D'envoy 'as a company of your Marines at d'Bank. Apparen'ly,
dey are on lay-over from Korea. An' I 'ear tings did nod go well for
you Ves'Spit'Yans in Korea."
Jimmy
quit hunching over the table, and wiped the spit off his face. He
glanced away from the shifty-eyed French, with his slick hair and
look, and muttered, "I believe we retain the half worth owning,"
and looked askance at Patti. His pal lifted a glass of supply to his
parted lips. He tipped back his head and poured the contents down his
ruddy throat. Rudely as possible it seemed Patti cleared the air with
his throat, a warning that he was going to join in.
"What
a slough the world has become. It is the perfect environment for
rubber legs. I'm not surprised you're getting around now. You US Navy
whoremongers have noticed it tends to smell worst around the French.
On the other hand, the French have disappeared. I ignore what's going
on in the swamp. But if I didn't, what would I be buzzing about? The
ardor the Southerners have for debt-free Africans? Rome's
long-standing plot against a few Scots saving the Irish? Grinding
poverty and disease of the poor pygmies in New Guinea? A blockade of
the Suez Canal by Egyptians longing to embrace the prodigal uh, sons?
I could lose a lot of sleep. And that would make me angry. And I am
already angry, so piss off and shut up."
“You
see? He reads.”
The
grizzled air leg vet wanted to keep rolling, his forehead becoming a
beaming target under thick blond hair. "You can't call it
solvent nor can you call it bankrupt.” Leaning forward, Patti
chewed aggressively into his argument. “The people of the Dark
Continent are the biggest losers. Why dontcha go scavenge there?"
Whose
side is he on? "Forget you heard about this place, Jimmy. You
shouldn't have come because you might have trouble leaving. I have
nothing to do with any of it. That's why I'm here. I figured what
better place to be to have none of it?" Patti gazed into an
empty glass for a moment, "To my endless wonder this place made
me rich. I guess I have nothing to do but make brass. Thanks, Jimmy."
He raised his glass, "Waitress! Get your ass over here! And
bring me two more! Jimmy's buying you a drink, Claude."
Jimmy
marvelled not at the American propensity for gall. He was equally
unsurprised by Patti's recalcitrance about reviving the surroundings.
Desautels
shook his head, "Non." He didn't want a drink.
The
trio admired the Eurasian's hustle quietly. She was a good looker,
bent over, hair getting in everybody's face when she wiped the table.
Jimmy fought the urge of a couple of days in the air. "Qu'est-ce
que vous boivrai, ce matin?" she asked.
"How
'bout your pants for starters." The French snorted, and Patti
glanced at Jimmy like he a needed a shower. Jimmy delicately handled
the explosive Amory cocktail over the hands folded on the table.
"She
can't unnerstand a word I'm saying."
She
delicately responded.
"Neither
can we," said the grizzled air leg vet. Patti heaved up his
empty glassware. He held forth two fingers, "Like I said, two
more of the same. One for you, pig?" then he held up three
fingers. He pointed to the source, "Il payez pour troisieme.
Claude, sure you won't have one? The Whoremonger himself is dying to
buy you a drink. Non? Non? How about, no. Non? Okay. Well, that's
three of those. Tra, Tra, run along now, veet! Veet!"
Jimmy
rubbed the bare patches at the top sides of his forehead with splayed
fingers. Then he replaced his hat on top of an expunged itch. He
realized it was his turn to derail this conversation.
"I'm
going to assume the American Air Force did it, okay? They pretend
it's their specialty after all. Furthermore why would the Viet Minhs
bomb their own factories?"
"D'eir
own, Whordy?"
"Jimmy.
Well whose are they then?"
"Wad
fabrications? Dere had bedder nod be any such t'ing aroun' SomeWhere
Disorien'al. An' I mus' insis' dat if you 'ear of any, beside dis
doom Ves'Spit'Yan's ill-conceive factory, you will tell me
immedia'ly. An' I will 'ire d'freelancers to blow id to shid."
He
blinked at this normally affable person (aside from the spitting
every time he mispronounces American). Jimmy met him on his previous
incursion. Claude owned a remarkably handsome face. You might envy
him that straight nose a good length between wide-set blue eyes.
There was no light in them, however. They were stone dead and ringed
with dark circles, and it was disturbing the way they flitted so
incessantly. His hair was ash-coloured and neatly trimmed and this
included a close-cropped beard. He spoke with a soothing, sonorous
voice.
In
conversation, this native intelligence proceeded from Claude
Desautels. He was okay for a French. He tried to speak American,
which must seem normal when you're on the losing side, except usually
the French made no effort, losers or not. Clearly when talking about
one particular subject Desautels lost his mind. That would be
anything to do with local affairs. You'd be mistaken to believe he
had anything at stake. It was the strange propensity of French to
mime, from religion to the silver screen. Jimmy now rubbed the left
temple under his hat. Desautels's voice cracked. With abnormal
frequency.
Nothing
but lamentation from him. Those extensive French investments had come
to nothing. Still, he looked a wealthy French. How did he keep up
this charade?
"Patti,
give me a smoke, will ya?" It had to be a sign of Desautels's
desperation that the Dragon Breath Monitor appeared in, suddenly,
freedom's most imposing language, and one he could hardly stand to
speak. To a certain point Desautels's life must have been consumed by
the latter-day imposition of French Colonialism on IndoChina. The
extinguishment must have vexed this French as much as any hereabouts.
A smoke landed on the table and Jimmy picked it up and lit it.
Desautels
reputedly knew the witness of a great debacle. A story is told how he
mistook a promise from Free French Forces Commander General Navarre
as the end grew near, and he forsook the safety of Saigon City. He
assigned the coverage of Dien Bien Phu to himself. This careering
manoeuvre nearly cost him his life, said the rumours, this insanely
impulsive act nobody in his right mind would have undertaken. Such
was the level of his grief, the man returned to Saigon City was now
consumed with bitter feelings. Better for America, he had been
dispossessed of a trunk full of treasure. He did take some amazing
pictures, mind you.
"Pilots
to fly planes. Where would those Viet Minhs learn to fly? And
bombardiers to hit targets. Ever heard of targets, buddy? Even French
have some idea about that, don't you?"
"Nod
enough. We begged you Ves'Spit'Yans to help. Now id is too lade. Bud
I sincerely believe dat d'Nort' Vietnamese could fly doze planes on
deir necromanic prayers, widoud engines, if dey needed to. Dey would
hid doze targed wit deir eye shud." He certainly sounded
defeatist. But defeatist was nothing new to a French. Underdogs and
unsuspecting bystanders died in race-sized hordes in ways which the
French showed their only creativity. If history told you anything,
then planting hordes was a way of life. It must be tough to look good
doing stuff like that.
"Really?
I didn't even know they had planes. Besides, Claude, a quick tour up
Tu Do tells all. The local wizards ran out of magic. Your friends
took their goods with them. Have you been out to Tan Son Nhut
lately?"
"Watch
d'planes, dey are something new."
“New
to you.”
"An',
yes, I been to d'aerodrome. Did you read d'Dragons Bret Monitor?"
"Only
the parts in American," replied Jimmy. He elbowed Patti and they
sniggered together. "Dey are conjuring up a whole new batch of
dat ol' magic, Jimmy. You big bad republican Ves -- "
Jimmy
put up his damp palm,and said, "I hear ya."
"
-- Pit'Yans should come over an' check id oud. Wad 'appen in d'gulf
las' night was magic. D'beginning of dah new ack. How you say id? One
ack."
Jimmy
saw Patti run a hand through his thick hair, "Finally here she
comes." All that time for three drinks? Patti corralled two of
three and commanded Jimmy pay the bill. Jimmy replied, "Put it
on my tab." "May tay sur la bill. Ill deet."
"Non,"
said the waitress. "You pay now, in dollars."
It
took a moment to register that she spoke American. Jimmy looked at
Patti who did not look back, “I told you to duck around this place
okay? You might live longer. Don't forget you're stuck here for
awhile. Now," the grizzled prick continued, "it's kind of
complicated, Jimmy, but you have to pay," he said to the formica
table top. "Things change and there's no way to make it stop.
Not even for you. Right, Claude?"
Jimmy
yanked out a fat dollar and sneered at the pretty girl. She snatched
it and went away beaming. Everybody loves a fat frogskin. Jimmy's
gonna fuck her before this trip is done. Patti raised a glass,
"Anyway, a toast to you two pricks. Claude Desautels and Jimmy
Doyle. Out with the doomed and in with the frumpy."
They
stared at each other humourlessly while he drank alone. That was
probably his custom these days. Patti smacked his lips, "So,"
he continued, "how about that American edition? Jimmy really
likes it. He's the only guy in these parts that can read it."
"I
'ave my raisons."
"We
know that's not true," Patti replied, immodestly, and Jimmy
interposed quickly, "Amory said it started this morning."
"Dere
is no end to stard'ling coincidence in SomeWhere Disorien'al, Jimmy.
Perhaps, dis time, you stay long enough to ged use to id?"
"The
story said nothing," Patti stammered back into the argument,
animated by alcohol or something less explicable.
"How
would you know?"
"Oui,
Archie, you are correc',” Desautels agreed, immediately, but with
Patti. “Dere was no'ting from d'reliable source I 'ave who tol' me
doze plane were Sinis'er. Definitely Sinis'er. I did nod use dis
information in d'news repord. Bud dey were nod Ves'Spit'Yan ad all."
Jimmy
ducked the spit but encouraged the French. He wondered aloud, "Why
would this Blameless mucker do such a thing?"
"Too
confusing for you? I 'ave live wid dis merde all my life."
"It
doesn't make any sense. Rent planes to bomb your own assets. Make it
look like somebody else did it. Then take credit when the damage is
done. And all the while haranging a few harmless thugs who are
failing to run the show here."
Jimmy's
remarks about ownership roused a typical gut reaction from the
long-suffering French. "You were nod buying rubber balls from
d'Putrid Defacto Leader, were you?"
"If
such concerns you, and it sure doesn't anymore, if ever it did, I
conduct my affairs with Saigon Bizarre and Novelty. I assumed Ngo
Dinh Diem saw it all go up in smoke."
"I
doubt if he was close enough to see it," Patti jibed.
"Besides,"
Jimmy nodded to his right, "for the past couple years I've been
hawking this man's line of junk with incredible margins. Losing
Diem's action doesn't hurt me since I never knew he had any. But I
would hardly waste my time dropping out of the sky to sit and drink
with this louse. Obviously. Hey! we're witnessing a total economic
collapse here. I've never seen one so total." Jimmy considered
himself expert on these matters. "Frankly I'm surprised to find
you here, Claude."
"Dere
is a story behin' d'story."
Feeling
robust in the face of destitution, Jimmy demanded, "Give it to
me." He added, slyly "What's holding you up?" as if he
didn't know. It might placate his fidgety good friend so he finally
leaned into his whisky.
"Uh,
d'way we do t'ings has become, how you say id -- "
"Say
what?" he gasped.
"Here
it comes...," said Patti.
"
-- catch as can catch."
"You
need lessons in American idiom, Claude."
“Non,
I don'.”
Patti
became animated again, "Jimmy's a language expert, you know.
He's probably stuck here for awhile, like you. But for different
reasons. Maybe in exchange you can give him details about the local
economy."
"Really?
I didn't know there was one?"
"There
ain't," said the French, suspiciously quick. Whatever Patti had
to say could only be bad news. That's the only kind he knows since
that blamed Bomb he laid on Hiroshima. Or was it Nagasaki? Damn his
burst of enthusiasm. "For instance, how about the rate of
inflation?" Jimmy glanced at Patti. The fair-haired grizzled air
leg vet stared at Jimmy down a bent nose, "How much you tip the
doorman?"
"Wad
doorman?"
Jimmy
groaned, "Oh, oh," and hung his head. The locals enjoyed a
brief burst of laughter. Jimmy glimpsed sheepishly at the first grin
to crease the sombre French's face. "Tailors aren't too busy,
right, Claude?"
"Non,
an' dey work cheap, by relative standards, an' so do deir relatives."
"Pay
in advance. They'll work harder and probably do it on the spot."
Jimmy importer-exporter gazed at the blood red wallpaper. "You'll
have a beautiful new suit in no time. I hope you can stand to wear
pure silk." It had a blood-red velvet finish, "Buy several.
Geez, Jimmy, start hauling them back to America," inlaid with
gold embossed swirls going nowhere in the blood, "by the
thousands." A real dust collector. Jimmy agreed finally he could
use a couple of new suits, but he added, "I prefer to help the
local economy off the sweat of their backs."
"You
used piasters, didn't you. They don't help much. They never have."
"You
might have warned me."
"Aw,
what did you lose? A couple of ugly suits like that one? A shaving
kit that you're obviously not too fond of?" The rudeness
continued at his expense, however, and he felt left out a little
longer. "You take bets on long nose lives, dontcha still,
Claude?"
"Am
I nod still in SomeWhere Disorien'al?"
Jimmy
saw flint no humour in Claude's deep blue eyes when he interjected,
"Don't look now, but yes, you are."
"Well...here's
one for you,” Patti said next, “Somebody sitting here as we
speak, at this very table, breathing even, but not smiling much, got
a hand-delivered letter this morning at the aerodrome. It was from
none other than Ngo Dinh Diem."
"Call
it an airport. Nowadays in the real world that's what they call such
places."
"Dis
person who god dis ledder. Who mi'yid dat be?" Claude kibbitzed.
Patti pointed at Jimmy several times. Why was everybody jabbing him
today? Claude let out a low whistle. Jimmy flinched at the
spit-prospects. "Was id an envelope?"
And
Jimmy spat back, "Of course it was an envelope."
"Was
id a big fad one?" "They always are." "Of course
he did nod open id." "Of course not."
"I
could tell. Led me tell you, Jimmy, why my newspaper appear in your
language. Francs. An' Ngo Dinh Diem pay beaucoup of dem. D' new
ones." Claude flatly said. "He is d'only one wid any to
pay."
Jimmy
mused, "Makes you wonder how he got them."
"You
can't blame Claude sticking around and wanting a few of them back."
“No,
you can't.” Jimmy soared free to fiddle with the brim of his hat.
"Id
was purely a madder of choice, Archie. I did nod 'ave to do id."
This
side of the table scoffed. "I per'onally suspec' Ngo is faking
his democracy,” Claude continued unabated, “He is unner d'control
of d'Communists in Hanoi..."
"Communists?
You say they are Communists? You got Communists here? Where did they
come from?"
"Come
now, Claude, you can't blame the paucity of this place on obscure
Communist nonsense."
Jimmy
turned to scrutinize the grizzled liberal threat by his side, "And
by the way, it ain't called Hanoi for nothing,” they heard Patti
say, “If you ignore Hanoi it will go away."
Jimmy
agreed, "They kept it because its the perfect name, Claude,”
vigorously, “By the way, get the spelling straight in your
newspaper. Somebody might have to write us a letter." The
discussion of Communists raised his hackles. But where was this place
and how come Patti knew nothing of the latest, greatest threat to
investments world-wide?
"Very
sarcastic, Archie. I am operaiding in a poisonous economic
environmen'. I 'ave los' almos' everyt'ing." Claude said it so
matter-of-fact that he obviously wanted no sympathy. He had murderous
intentions, of course, which elicited curiosity. "Dog eat man,"
Patti muttered.
The
French snorted, "I wish I lef' before id came to dat. D'local
cuisine 'as much always turn my stomach."
"You'll
never leave."
Part
of him never would. Claude glanced off, in scolding silence. There a
damned curiosity. He turned his attention back to Jimmy. "For
d'right number of spondulics I will give you d'intelligence aboud wad
is happen in SomeWhere Disorien'al."
Now
this filthy rich guy was panning for frogskins? Furthermore Jimmy had
been expecting it. He pulled out his roll and counted out fifty.
"Please, Jimmy, don't be insul'ing." Jimmy counted out
fifty more. He laid them on top the others.
"Plus."
"No
more. Claude, these are worth something. Maybe you're not used to
this. The value of these spirals up," he assured, soothingly.
"That makes it valuable currency. If I had used this, I'd have
new luggage and a car of my own parked out front. Go ahead. Pick it
up. Perhaps it's been awhile? Hey, Archie, cars' got
air-conditioning."
"You
'ave a wil' mob in North Vietnam. Dey are barely unner d'control of
dat rabid monkey, Putrid Defacto Leader Ho Chi Minh. Id is a
siduation d'like of which 'as never been seen. An' dis is d'way dey
operaide... D'Planning Council enlis' dat mob to t'wart our business.
Never 'ave you seen such a stiff-neck bunch of mudder-fuggers. Now
d'Planning Council 'ave a problem. Dey mus' face dat mob demselves.
Dis mus' make dem sick. And soon dey mus' ac' and ac' fas'. I know
doze men. I saw dem from d'beginning when dey sneak into Hanoi. Dey
came from d'hills in d'wes'. D'same 'ills dat run into Sini'ser... "
Jimmy observed the thickening smoke in Desautels's eyes.
"Patti,
gimme another smoke, will ya?" Jimmy propped an elbow on the
table to watch the suffering Walleye. One of those flipped up and
landed beside his elbow. Patti had yet to light up. Oh, there he
goes. He generously offered to light Jimmy's. "Dey came oud
saying dey possess d'istorical Confusing rules to govern d'wretched
Viets. An' immedia'ly, if nod sooner, dey sed out' to subverd
d'Mercantile agenda."
"Demonical?"
"We
tried dat too. An' of course dere's no'ting wrong wid id unless id
stard 'appening to you. Id was endless mischief an mayhem. Lose dis
paper. Mis-spell dat word. Leave out dat paragraph. An' elsewhere.
Loose dat bol'. Or even undo id an' lose id. Forge' to add d'oil --
and watch d'engine explode! -- On an' on id wen'.
"Dey
invide d'belligerence. Wad else do you do? bud kill d'perpetrators of
endless hocus pocus."
"Did'ja
ever think to let 'em ride in those cars and trucks other than to the
pit, Claude?"
"Aw
fug you, Archie, whad for? Sometimes in chains, Jimmy. An' only a
Viet Minhs who work on d'vehicle himself. Furd'ermore, Jimmy, dere is
nod a historian in d'bunch. Dere never was. Now d'trut' come oud. Dey
are a creation of d'Communist fron'. Id is no'ting to do with doze
often- mentioned and too fon'ly remembered historians. Doze craze
councillors run a Communist-rig 'ouse, wid d'dice loaded agains'
barbarians, uh, investors."
If
this is true Jimmy is definitely getting his money's worth, except
there is no business worth talking about so why is the French
weeping? Did it just come naturally to these people? Too bad Patti
didn't look up from a glass more often. "I think a lot of French
think like this." He might learn something about what's going on
around here. "Not around here," Patti said and shrugged.
"Goes
without saying. Listen, I almost hate to say it, Claude, because
you're a hurtin' long nose. And yours is a hurting race of Longnozes.
Always was. You don't resemble anything like an influential nation. I
know you went alone for a few centuries here. But what did you do?"
"No'ting."
"You're
taking a whipping from somebody. Your money is worth nothing, and
nobody knows why. But if your saying this stuff about Communists is
true, I say it's plain loser talk," Jimmy waved a hand, "I
understand," and sighed, "I must consider the source. So
tell me. Do you French do any business? Did you guys do anything here
to prove it?"
"No'ting.
Certainly not as much as we use to," he replied, shamefully,
"not as much as we used to. Bud guess wad?" This guy had
amazing resilience. He seemed to be shedding his skin. Jimmy
witnessed a third ludicrous grin, counting Patti's drunken leer, but
this one more devious and possibly larcenous. (Perhaps it was the
atmosphere of the Embassy Lounge. It seemed no one smiled for long in
South East Asia, unless they had a compelling reason, a mouthful of
gold to display. And to do that you carry a gun. There are so few
guns that nobody's smiling. The French waved a manicured hand across
the table.
Jimmy
was relieved it didn't jab at him, "You Ves'spit'yans," and
disgusted when he came within range again, "both of you, an' all
d'res' of you, will 'ave your Barbaridy bankrup'd."
"Are
you outta your fucking mind?"
"Oh
fuck Jimmy isn't that obvious. Oh right you're the guy that chats it
up with Robert Amory. How would you know?" Jimmy desired to kill
his good friend. The French's snarling lips quivered. Everything in
the handsome French's face betrayed pain and loss. His eyes burned
from sorrowful experience. Or was he possibly remembering other than
his own? Jimmy saw a blinding cloud in one of them. In the other a
red flash beckoned the death of someone, some lot of someones. Who
was he going for next? It seemed kind of obvious.
"D'rabid
monkey can 'ardly afford to waid. 'is Communist debt is wrid on a
stack of promissory nodes to dat seed'ing mob o'Viet Congs."
"Viet
whats? Get to the one hundred spondulic point."
"You
'eard me, Jimmy. Dey invide d'White House to invest aroun' 'ere by
jus' admidding wad dey are. Uncle Ho needs you," oh the fucker,
jabbing at him, "to pay dat mob. Why don' you accep'
d'invitation an' kick d'eir Communis' asses back to d'ills wes' of
Sinis'er? Dat's where d'Communists belong."
"So
you think they're inviting war with Americans, Claude? Besides
revenge, what keeps you here? If the White House were to sit on South
East Asia, you know what kind of hole this would be?"
"I
presume id would make id an 'ole on a map. Where is id ad d'moment?"
"Claude,
I'm going to make it my life's work to tell democracy where it is,
with extreme emphasis on the part about Communists. Does that make
you happy? Let me buy you a drink."
"Yes
an Non."
Patti
slammed an arm across the table. "Enough! Don't tell a fucking
soul about this place," he scowled. "Quit tellin' 'Betty'
about it. You want come over and start leading Cao Dai parades?
Jimmy, the country's only a thousand, err, five hundred miles long."
"Aw
whose 'Betty'," Jimmy muttered. He knew enough about the cabal
brewing it up in America. Patti lifted his arm and pointed at
Desautels, "What if the Cao Dai busted your bank."
Jimmy
recognized the old shirt, sleeves frayed at the wrist, collar more
faded compared to the shirt. It must be a favourite Katanya Rae
Velvet keeps clean. Wonder how that black got there on shoulder.
Jimmy never carried favourite clothes. As itinerant globe-trotters
know, valuables do not belong in luggage.
Something
appeared to dawn on Patti. "That's why you wanted those
dollars." He sat back and heaved a sigh, "You'll never live
long enough to see that game again."
“Oh
yes I will,” the French scowled back at Patti's cryptic
understatement. Were they talking about money-changing around here?
It never caught Jimmy's interest. All you had to do was consider the
base currency and you dropped the matter.
"Claude,
I have to agree with Jimmy." He did? "You do?"
"Yes,
the White House would never act to get involved here. Rice doesn't
interest the democracy. There is nothing else to steal. So forget
about it."
Oh
there he goes again. This will get him going, figured Jimmy, "Are
you saying the Blameless asshole is going to break the Treasury of
America?"
It
did and Patti raised a fist at him but his jaw dropped. It hung at
the sight of Claude's first real smile. The blond haired head fell
back and stared at the ceiling. He took out a cigarette for himself.
He lit up and blew smoke rings to the centre of the room.
Meanwhile,
Claude was happier to say the least. "Firs' you sed id up, Jimmy," he replied, gleefully, "Den we'll see if dat gambler can break id."
Jimmy knew the French were famous for hand gestures. He believed the
handsome Walleyed French kept his hands in a neatly folded cup on the
table below his chin to catch a stray tear or two. Therefore this
slight changed demeanor was a curiosity. "You should have asked
for help a long time ago, Claude."
"We
did. Talk to d'Dulles brodders. There is truth in a name," he
muttered.
"So
I heard. By the way, next time I pay in local currency. These juicy
tidbits aren't enough for a whole dollar to swallow. What do you
French calls them? Whores Durves? Forget about a hundred of them."
"We did nod inten' to keep id a secred." Claude replied
with a typical French Colon lie. It somehow implied they had anything
worth telling. There was the lie at the heart of the matter. The
dapper French laid his palms flat. His light silk suit was a nice
fit. "Who makes your suits?" The French pushed himself out
of the booth. "I will sen' 'im oud to Archie's."
But
before departing he leered. "Actually, Jimmy, you give me
renewing fait' in d'local currency. Give me enough of dem an' I will
accep' piasters unconditionally."
Patti
smirked, "It is amazing how you keep the faith in those
piasters. Aren't you French the guys with all the faith in them the
last time.”
Desautels
gazed with stony eyes, harumphed, and sauntered away.
And Jimmy bellowed, "You have every reason to be!" When he
stood to move to the other side of the table, Patti waved to the
tricky multilingual waitress. Jimmy was ready for some serious
pounding. "Jimmy, you don't know what you're saying...."
"Thinks
he knows the ropes around here," he replied, feeling snarly. He
took off his hat and squinted when daylight spilled in the room.
"He's
used enough of them," said the grizzled son-of-a- bitch across
the table.
"I
wonder if the rumour is true."
"No
rumour. Actual fact. They got his at Dien Bien Phu. They did indeed."
"Wonder
what them Viet Minhs use em for?"
"You
don't want to know any more than I don't want to know. So drop it.
Give me more bad news from America."
