“Do you think she’s in any danger?” Lucy asked.
“From the elephant? Probably not,” I said. “The boy seems calm.”
“We should fetch her, anyway. It’s time we went back.” She tucked the envelope into her bag, yet made no move to stand. “Whatever comes, I think we’ve helped her.”
“We provided a place where she didn’t have to worry about survival. But I don’t think we can claim to have helped.”
“What should we have done? Put her in a clinic? She wouldn’t last a day. We’re not her parents . . . and it’s not as if she cares a fig about us. She’d be off in a flash if something better happened along.”
“Maybe something better will come along. That’s why I gave you the money.”
Lucy acknowledged this gloomily.
“She may care about us more than you think,” I said. “Her attachment to the world is flimsy, but we became her world for a few weeks. Flimsy or not, she formed an attachment.”
“Isolate one moment, if you can, when she demonstrated genuine affection.”
“That little speech she gave at the Heart of Darkness. I . . .”
“I knew you’d bring that up.”
“I realize it was done for shock value. But it was inspired by a kernel of affection.”
Lucy’s fortune-teller scurried out from his stall and made a playful run at Riel—his shoulders were hunched and arms dangling, as though he were pretending to be a monkey tempted by a piece of fruit yet afraid to touch it. She continued to dance, and he wove a path about her, feinting, lunging at her, and scooting away; whenever he came near, he scattered some sort of powder at her feet. The scene held a curious potency, like a picture on a card, the representation of an archetype in a Cambodian Tarot, an image that seemed easily interpretable at first glance, but then, in the way of many Asian scenes, came to seem an impenetrable riddle: the wizard scuttling forward and retreating and the mystery void girl, the blonde sacrifice, lost in abandon, in holy, slow dementia, dancing before the massive, dim-witted, iconic beast. Lucy mentioned again that we should be going. Another peal of thunder, an erratic rumbling, hinted at something souring in the darkened belly of the sky. Vendors hastened to cover their merchandise, unrolling cloths and makeshift awnings. A sprinkle of rain fell, yet still we sat there.
“Snake country. That is what my daddy called Vietnam whenever he’d had a few, referring not only to his service in the delta, but to the country at large. He’d reach a garrulous stage in his drunk and deliver himself of some bloody, doleful tale, staring into his glass as if relating his wartime experiences to gnats that had drowned in a half-inch of Jim Beam. I think these stories were intended as self-justification, explaining in advance why he was probably going to kick the crap out of me later on, capping off his evening with a spot of exercise; but I heard them not as apology or warnings about the world’s savagery—they had for me the windy lilt of pirate stories, and I loved to hear him lying his ass off, boasting of his prowess with a fifty-millimeter machine gun, blowing away gooks from the stern of a swift boat, dealing death while his comrades were shot to pieces around him . . . and, oh, watching them die had ripped the heart from his chest—the survivor’s guilt he felt, the nightly visitations from torn, shattered corpses. Yet he couldn’t help that he had been made of sterner stuff than they, and, when you got right down to it, he had relished his days in Vietnam. He had been called, he said, and not by love of country. If he had it to do over, he wouldn’t so much as step on a bug for a country that hadn’t done squat for him. No, he was convinced that he had been summoned to an unguessable purpose that he could never put a name to, that had nothing to do with war. That was the sole element of his narrative that rang true, the part about being summoned, and this was likely due to the fact that I could relate to such a summons. He hated the Vietnamese, but he was a natural-born hater, and I doubt now that he ever went to Vietnam. He showed me no mementos or photos of him and his buddies, and the stories lacked detail, though as the years wore on, he added detail (whether his memory improved or he was polishing a fictional history, his stories caused me to become fixated on guns and violence, and this led me to do a crime that earned me a nickel in the prison camp at Butner). His war record was the only thing he took pride in, yet it may all have been a drunken fantasy. ‘The goddamn gooks make wine out of snake’s blood,’ he muttered once before passing out, and the conjuration of that image, red-like-pomegranate wine that beaded on the lip of a glass in a yellow-claw hand, the drops congealing thick as liquefied Jell-O, sliding down the throat in clots, slimy and narcotic—that said it all for me about snake country.
“Unlike my daddy, who came with guns blazing and the ace of death in his eye, I had the shits when I entered Vietnam, and several degrees of fever. I lay in the bottom of the boat, trying to hold in my guts, and avoided looking at the sky, which was playing its usual tricks, only with greater frequency—to look at it intensified my fever. We had some trouble at the border post. The Vietnamese run a tighter ship than does Cambodia, and since we didn’t have enough money for a respectable bribe, the officials threatened to confiscate our boat; but then Jordan helped them get an overloaded pick-up unstuck from a muddy ditch, and after that they were all smiles and stamped our passports and waved us through into a portion of the Mekong renowned for its whirlpools. We were cautioned that much larger craft than ours had been sucked under, but we negotiated this treacherous stretch without incident and, below the town of Chau Doc, entered an area known as the Nine Dragons, where the river split into nine major channels, and there were as well minor channels, islands, and a maze of man-made canals spider-webbing an enormous area. At a riverside gas station, we received directions to the Kinh Dong Tien, the canal that would carry us toward the tea forest.
“The boating life on the canals was more lively than we had yet encountered, even in the vicinity of Phnom Penh, and was so dense that signs on the riverbank directed traffic, warning when not to pass on the left and such. There were mobile floating rice mills, boats loaded with construction supplies, with coconuts, plumbing fixtures, furniture, watermelons, and so forth, and the banks were crowded with shacks, and beyond them were fields reeking of DDT. People stared open-mouthed at us and laughed at our wretched condition—covered with insect bites and sores, putting along in that wreck of a boat, the rudder held on with adhesive tape, the engine sputtering. Some of them, moved by charitable impulse, offered assistance, and others offered produce and drinking water, but I was in no mood to accept their charity. My fever had worsened, and the spiritual darkness that afflicted me had deepened to the point that I saw everything through a lens of distaste and loathing. Every smile seemed mocking, every friendly gesture masked an inimical intent, and I wanted nothing to do with this infestation of small brown people who swarmed over the delta, polluting it with their pesticides, with their shitting, squalling babies, and their brute insignificance. ‘You don’t go hunting termites with a rifle,’ Daddy once told me. ‘You poison their fucking nest.’ Recalling that comment, I thought maybe he had gone to Vietnam after all . . .”
Not long after the events described in this passage, Cradle Two’s narrator (and, I would guess, Cradle Two himself) grew too ill go on, or, as the narrator implies, he used illness as an excuse for quitting because his fear of what lay ahead came to outweigh the pull he felt to complete the journey. After being treated at a local clinic, he recuperated in Phnom Penh and there wrote the ending to the book, claiming to be in mental communion with a multiplicity of Thomas Cradles, several of whom managed to enter the tea forest; yet even if you accepted this to be true, it was not a true resolution—he lost contact with the various Cradles once they passed beyond the edge of the forest, and so he contrived an ending based on clues and extrapolation.
I had been wise not to emulate Cradle Two’s journey to the letter, I realized. As I’ve mentioned, the lifestyle he was forced to adopt due to lack of funds left him prone to disease and injury, whereas I, traveling in co
mfort aboard the Undine, had maintained my health. I had no doubt that I would see journey’s end; but now that I was on the final leg, I debated whether or not I wanted to see it. The spiritual darkness remarked on by Cradle Two’s narrator had descended upon me in full, though it might be more accurate to say that my social veneer had been worn away by the passage along the river and my dark nature revealed. I understood my essential character to be cold and grasping, violent and cowardly, courageous enough should my welfare demand it, yet terrified of everything, and I was, for the most part, comfortable with that recognition. (All men possessed these qualities, although I—and, I assumed, my fellow Cradles—must have them in spades.) When Kim called, presumably to report on her reading of The Tea Forest, I refused to answer. She rang and rang, calling every half hour; I switched off the satellite phone, not wishing to be distracted from steeping in my own poisonous spirit, basking amid thoughts that uncoiled lazily, turgidly, like serpents waking from a long sleep . . . like Cradle Two’s ornate sentences. Yet as my bleakness grew, so did my fear. I wanted to retreat from the delta, to return to my old secure life. The fear was due in large measure to what I saw whenever I set foot out of the cabin. As we drew near Phu Tho, the hamlet that served as the jumping-off place for the tea forest, the changes that twitched and reconfigured the clouds, that caused mirrors to vanish from walls and rooftops to assume new outlines, became constant, and I felt myself to be the only solid thing in the landscape. It was like watching time-lapse photography. A village glided past, and I saw tin roofs rippling with change, acquiring rust, brightening with strips of new tin, dimpling with dents that would the next second be smoothed out, and a group of people coming from their houses to stare and wave would shift in number and alignment, vanishing and reappearing, wearing shabbier or more splendid clothes, and the sky would darken with running clouds, lighten and clear, the clouds then reoccurring, assuming different shapes, and the green of the fields would vary from a pale yellow-green to a deep viridian, and every shade in between; and Lan at his post in the prow, he would change, too, his skull narrowing and elongating, stubble sprouting from his chin, one leg withering, a cane materializing by his hand—yet before long he was hale once again. I sequestered myself in the cabin, doing my best to ignore disappearing pots and suddenly manifesting piles of dirty clothing. I had nothing to guide me through this leg of the journey—I had gone farther along the path than Cradle Two, and his novel made no mention of this phenomenon. On half a dozen occasions, I was on the verge of ordering Deng to turn the boat and make for Phnom Penh, but I persevered, though my heart fluttered in my chest, itself registering (or so I feared) the process of change as we slipped back and forth between universes, approaching an unearthly nexus. And then, less than five miles from Phu Tho, either the changes ceased or they became unobservable. We had reached a place where all things flowed into one, the calm at the heart of the storm.
Phu Tho itself was unremarkable, a collection of small concrete-block houses, painted in pastel shades, gathered about a landing and a ranger station (a mosquito-infested tin hut) where you gained admission to the national park beyond, a wetlands that contained the tea forest. But the canal and its embankment in the vicinity of Phu Tho was a graveyard of boats: motor launches, rafts, dinghies, sailboats of every size, barges. Thousands had been dragged onto land and an uncountable number of others scuttled—in order to clear a channel, I conjectured, though that reason no longer applied, for the channel had been blocked with submerged and partially submerged craft, and our progress was halted more than a mile from the hamlet. To reach it, I would have to pick my way on foot across the drowned hulks of a myriad boats.
We arrived at our stopping point in early morning, when drifts of whitish fog lay over all, ghosting the forest of prows and masts emerging from the water and the wreckage of crushed and capsized hulls spilling over the shore as if a tsunami had driven them to ruin. The majority (like the Undine) were adorned with painted eyes to drive away evil spirits, and these could be seen peering at us through the gauzy cover, seeming to blink as the fog thickened and thinned—it was an eerie and disconcerting sight, its effect amplified by the funereal silence that held sway, accented by the slop of the tide against the houseboat, an unsavory sound that reminded me in its erratic rhythm of an injured cur licking a wound. The people we had talked to along the canals would surely have told us of this obstruction, and it followed, then, that Phu Tho, this Phu Tho, must be a singular place designed to mark journey’s end for every Thomas Cradle (excepting those who failed to complete their journeys), and that in other Phu Thos, life went on as always, the canal busy with its usual traffic, and that I was, despite Lan’s presence, for all intents and purposes, alone.
I packed a rucksack with a change of clothes, protein bars, water, the gun, binoculars, a coiled length of rope, the Colt, a first-aid kit, an English-Vietnamese pocket dictionary, repellent, and my dog-eared copy of Cradle Two’s novel, thinking that his ruminations about the tea forest might be of value. Lan was waiting on deck, dour as ever; before I could instruct him, he said, “I stay here three days. Then I go. Bring police.” Phu Tho spooked him, though you couldn’t have determined this from his expression. I felt oddly sentimental about leaving him behind, and as I began my trek to shore, negotiating a path of slippery, tilted decks and slick hulls, tightroping along submerged railings, I speculated about his past and why he had stuck it out with me. I decided that it must have to do with habits cultivated during the Vietnam conflict—he may have been an army scout or ARVN and thus had developed a love-hate relationship with Americans. Before long, however, the exigencies of the crossing demanded my full attention. Twice I had to retrace my steps and seek a new route, and once, when I was up to my neck in water, I nudged something soft, and a bloated, eyeless face emerged from the murk and bobbed to the surface. I kicked the body away in revulsion, but I had the impression that the face had belonged to a man of about my size and weight. This was more than a graveyard for boats. I imagined that many more Cradles might be asleep in that deep.
A third of the way to shore, I stopped to rest atop the roof of a sunken launch. The sun was high, showing intermittently between leaden clouds; the fog had burned off, and though the heat was intense, I was grateful for it. I felt a chill that could not be explained by my immersion in water. The stillness and the silence, the corpse I had disturbed, the regatta of dead ships, looking more ruinous absent its ghostly dress and stretching, I saw now, for miles along the canal, a veritable boat holocaust: It was such a surreal scene, its scope so tremendous, I quailed before it; yet as always something drove me on. I was around fifty, sixty yards from shore, taking another rest, when music kicked in from one of the houses. It carried faintly across the water, but I could make out Little Richard telling Miss Molly it was all right to ball. The song finished, and after an interval, Sly Stone’s “Everyday People” began to play. That sunny jingle served to heighten Phu Tho’s desolate air. I wiped sweat from my eyes and scanned the houses, trying to find the source of the music. No people, no dogs or pigs or chickens. Banana fronds lifted in a breeze, but no movement otherwise. I took a look through my binoculars. On the fa¸ade of a pale green house was a mural like the one I’d seen in Stung Treng, and again in Phnom Penh, depicting a yellowish, many-chambered form. The next song was Neal Diamond’s “Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon.” Whoever was selecting the music had begun to piss me off.
The boats close in to the hamlet were relatively undamaged, still afloat, and this made the going easier. I scrambled ashore to the tune of “Low Rider” and rested on an overturned dinghy, the moisture steaming out of my clothing. I took the gun from my pack, tucked it into my waist, and headed for the pale green house, walking across a patch of mucky ground bristling with weeds and, apart from butterflies and some unseen buzzing insects, devoid of life. The vibe I received from Phu Tho was not so much one of abandonment (though it clearly had been abandoned), but of its impermanence, of the tautness to which its colors an
d shape were stretched over an inscrutable frame. It was as if at any moment my foot would punch through the rice paper illusion of earth into the void below; yet I had a firm confidence that this would not happen, that its frailty, its temporality, was something I simply hadn’t noticed before but that had always been there to notice—frailty was an essential condition of life—and that I noticed it now spoke to the fact that I had come to a place less distant (in some incomprehensible way) from the source of the feeling. This was a complex and improbable understanding to have reached in the space of a hundred-foot walk, with music blasting and all the while worrying about what was inside the house and whether it had been wise to swim in water as foul as that in the vicinity of the hamlet; yet reach it I did, for all the benefit it bestowed.
The song faded, and the put-put of a generator surfaced from the funk, the singer advising his listeners to take a little trip, take a little trip with him, and an enormous man stepped from the door. He was well over three hundred pounds (closer to four, I reckoned), and stood a full head taller than I, clad in shorts and sandals and a collarless, sweat-stained shirt sewn of flour sacking. His arms and legs were speckled with inflamed insect bites, and his complexion was a sunburned pink, burst capillaries reddening his cheeks and nose; but for these variances, his bearded face, couched in an amused expression, was the porcine equivalent of my own.
“You’re late to the party, cuz,” he said in a voice rougher than mine, a smoker’s voice with a country twang.
I was slow to respond, daunted by him.
“Better come on in,” he said. “Looks like you could use a sit-down.”
Other Earths Page 28
