by Peter May
‘It is strange,’ the General mused, ‘how we grow to depend on people. Just her presence had always been a comfort to me. Now my house seems cold and empty without her. Even yet.’ He seemed to return from some distant place, and he smiled as his eyes flickered back to meet hers. ‘Of course, my life, as it always has been, is consumed by the army. And these are demanding times. Although in my few moments of relaxation I always have my . . .’ he hesitated a moment ‘. . . my books and my pipe.’
Lisa laughed. ‘Your pipe?’
The General acknowledged her misunderstanding with a small secret smile. ‘Not as you understand it, my dear.’
It was a moment before realization dawned. ‘You mean opium?’ she asked, horrified.
‘A small vice, commonly practised in the East. Harmless in moderation and wonderful therapy for a troubled spirit.’
Lisa remained unconvinced. ‘But – isn’t opium just like heroin?’
The General laughed. ‘Heroin is merely a derivative, processed for Western tastes, cheap and nasty like American junk food. The experienced smoker uses his opium, is not used by it.’ He glanced around the room. ‘I doubt if there is a single one of my colleagues here who does not enjoy the occasional pipe.’
‘Isn’t it illegal?’
But the General’s smile only widened. ‘You have, I think, a lot to learn, my pretty little English rose.’ Which left Lisa feeling very foolish and very young.
She turned at a touch on her arm to find Grace there, radiant and with a little smile of apology. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ Grace said. ‘I’m afraid I have been called away to attend to some business. I don’t want to break up the party, so please carry on for as long as you wish.’
‘When will you be back?’ Lisa asked.
‘I shall go straight back to the house,’ said Grace. ‘I have invited a few of my guests there for drinks. General, could you see that Lisa is delivered safely home?’
‘It would give me great pleasure, La Mère Grace.’ The General made a formal bow of apology. ‘Unfortunately I have to return home. I am expecting an important phone call around twelve.’
‘Then perhaps Lisa could go with you, and you could bring her to my house after your call. I am sure the midnight curfew does not extend to army generals.’
‘Well, of course. I should be only too happy to oblige.’ He turned to Lisa. ‘Assuming you have no objections, my dear.’
‘No. No, of course not,’ Lisa said a little uncertainly.
‘Good, that’s settled, then. Thank you, General.’ Grace beamed and kissed Lisa on the cheek. ‘À toute à l’heure, ma chérie.’ And she drifted away through the dancers towards the table, where a waiter hovered with her shawl.
‘Well,’ said the General as Lisa turned back to him, ‘at least I shall have the pleasure of your company for a little longer than I expected.’ He raised his arm to look at his watch. ‘We should leave soon. My home is on the other side of the city.’
*
The General’s house lay at the end of a dark soi off Rama I Road, next to the Klong San Saep. It was built in traditional Thai style, mostly from teak, and was set in beautiful floodlit gardens. The General had to negotiate an elaborate security system to let them in. He clapped his hands and called for his houseboy to fetch drinks, and then switched off the floodlights in the garden. The houseboy – he could have been no more than fifteen – brought warmed rice wine, and Lisa sank back into a comfortable settee and let her eyes wander over the collection of Asian art and artefacts that filled the sitting room: Japanese watercolours, a series of paintings depicting scenes from the Buddhist Jataka tales, Chinese and Thai porcelain, and literally dozens of Buddha images from all over south-east Asia. She sipped the warm, slightly bitter wine. ‘You have quite a collection,’ she said.
‘It was my wife who collected,’ said the General. ‘Something to fill her days.’ He sighed, a touch of melancholy in his smile. ‘Oddly, I get more pleasure from it all now than I did when she was alive.’ He followed her gaze to the collection of Buddhas. ‘You like the Buddhas?’
‘They’re beautiful,’ Lisa said. ‘Are you a Buddhist?’
‘A very bad one,’ he said with a rueful grin. ‘I suppose there are bad Christians, too.’
Lisa returned the grin. ‘You’re talking to one.’ She rose and crossed to a tall, slender and pensive image sitting cross-legged on a stone pillow. She reached out a hand to touch it. ‘May I?’
‘Of course.’
It felt smooth and cold to the touch. ‘So many images to worship.’
‘The images are not for worship,’ he corrected her. ‘One worships Buddha, but merely venerates the image.’ He paused to sip his wine and watch her contemplatively. ‘Do you know anything of our religion?’
‘Nothing,’ Lisa said. ‘I’m afraid I’m really very ignorant.’
The General eased himself out of his chair and wandered across the polished teak floor to join her. ‘Buddha,’ he said, ‘gave us Four Noble Truths. Life is subject to sorrow; sorrow is caused by ignorance, which leads to desire; sorrow can be eliminated by eliminating desire; desire can be eliminated by following the Noble Eightfold Path.’
‘What is the noble eightfold path?’
He laughed. ‘No doubt as a child you learned the books of the Old Testament, or the Catechisms. Do you still remember them?’
‘No.’ She returned his laugh. ‘Probably not.’
He shrugged. ‘My problem has always been in eliminating desire.’ And he reached out and ran his hand through her thick, short, blonde hair. She took a step back, alarmed by the unexpectedness of his touch. ‘You mustn’t worry, my dear,’ he smiled. ‘It would be unnatural, even for an old man like me, not to have his desire aroused by your beauty.’
For the first time, Lisa felt a stab of doubt, followed by an acute sense of vulnerability. Was it a mistake to have come here alone with this man? And yet he was a friend of Grace. She searched for something appropriate to say, but nothing would come.
Somewhere in the depths of the house a phone rang. ‘My call,’ the General said. ‘Please make yourself comfortable, have some more wine. I should not be too long.’ And he hurried away to disappear down a dimly lit passage at the far side of the room.
Lisa took a deep breath and told herself she was in no danger. How could she be? She took another sip of wine and crossed back to the settee and perched herself gingerly on the edge of it. In a short while they would be heading back across the city to Grace’s house.
She sat for what seemed like a very long time looking idly around the large sprawling sitting room, oriental rugs scattered across the polished teak floor, black lacquer tables laden with ornaments, several beautifully painted lacquer screens. She was startled when the fan overhead suddenly hummed into life and began turning lazily. She glanced round to see the General’s houseboy emerge from the passageway and climb the open-slat staircase to the upper floor. He did not look in her direction. After a while she grew restless and more nervous. Her wine was finished and she laid her cup on a table and stood up to wander round the room, touching things distractedly.
‘I’m sorry to have kept you, my dear.’
She turned and saw, with a sense of shock, that the General was dressed only in a black silk robe with red trim and a red belt. On his feet he wore soft open slippers.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked, with a sudden foreboding. But he remained relaxed and smiling.
‘I’m afraid I must wait for a further call. Thirty, forty minutes, no more. I have asked my boy to prepare a couple of pipes while we wait.’
Lisa picked up her purse, panic rising in her chest. ‘I think I’ll just get a taxi.’
‘I regret that will not be possible. It is already after twelve and the curfew is in force.’
‘I should phone Grace and let her know, then.’
> The General smiled. ‘I have already done so.’ He held out a hand towards her. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Think of it as an education. The broadening of your experience.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Lisa said.
‘Nonsense.’ He crossed the room and took her hand. ‘You cannot come to the East without experiencing a little of its magic. You must grow up sometime.’
Reluctantly, because she did not know what else to do, she let him lead her to the stairs, and as they climbed slowly to the upper floor he said, ‘The Noble Eightfold Path leads to the abolition of suffering.’
‘I thought you’d forgotten.’ She was startled by this unexpected tangent.
‘I looked them up. For my own enlightenment as well as yours. Shall I go on?’
She nodded mutely as they reached a landing and turned down a narrow hallway with concealed lighting.
‘Right understanding,’ he said, ‘meaning an intellectual grasp of the Four Noble Truths; Right intention, meaning the extinction of revenge, hatred, and the desire to do harm . . .’ He opened the door into a large study bedroom. A bed draped with mosquito netting, a polished mahogany desk and leather swivel chair, two leather armchairs, a lacquer coffee table. One wall was lined with books, on another hung a huge map of South East Asia. Soft, deep-piled rugs covered the floor, and the only light came from a brass desk lamp with a green glass shade. The room was filled with a peculiar stale, musty smell, and the General’s houseboy knelt over the naked flame of an oil lamp on a low bedside table. In his hands he held the General’s pipe – more than two feet of straight bamboo with carved ivory at each end. About two-thirds of the way down, a small bowl was set into the bamboo, dark and polished by the frequent kneading of opium.
Lisa concentrated hard on the General’s words to still the fear that was growing in her. ‘Right speech,’ he droned on, ‘meaning telling the truth, avoiding rumours, swearing and conceited gossip; Right action, meaning the decision not to kill or hunt any living thing, not to steal or to commit adultery . . .’
The houseboy was kneading a little ball of hot paste on the convex margin of the bowl, and Lisa smelled for the first time the pungent sweet odour of fresh opium.
‘. . . Right effort, meaning the conscious choice of good over evil; Right mindfulness, meaning the awareness of the divisions of contemplation: the body; sensation, the mind, and the Dharma . . .’ The General guided her to one of the leather armchairs and indicated she should sit. She sat uneasily as he crossed to his desk and poured them each more wine from a small porcelain jug. ‘And Right concentration, meaning the mental absorption on actions to be performed rightly.’ He handed her a cup and paused. ‘Was that seven or eight?’
‘I lost count,’ Lisa said nervously
The General laughed. ‘So did I. I think I may have forgotten one. But, then, forgetfulness is one of the privileges of old age.’ He turned to his boy and barked something in Thai. The boy nodded and the General drained his cup in one draught before crossing to the bed. ‘Excuse me, my dear. I like to make myself comfortable.’ He arranged himself on the bed, propping himself up with several pillows. Lisa watched with a fascinated horror as the houseboy plunged a needle into a tiny cavity in the centre of the bowl, and with a practised flick of the wrist released the opium and reversed the bowl over the flame. He held the pipe steady as the General leaned forward and took the end of it between his lips. The bead of opium bubbled gently as he inhaled in one long smooth pull before lying back on the pillows, slowly releasing the smoke from his mouth and nostrils. He sighed with a deep satisfaction and visibly relaxed. He barked something again in Thai and the houseboy immediately began preparing another pipe. ‘I have asked him to prepare you a pipe,’ he said without looking at her.
Lisa sat frozen in her chair. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. But there was uncertainty in her voice, something seductive in the sweet smell of the smoke. Her head swam with confusion and alcohol and the temptation of something forbidden. She took a mouthful of rice wine.
The General rolled over on to his side, propping himself on one elbow, his fat smiling face almost beatific. ‘But you must. We are on this earth for such a short time. It would be criminal not to taste the fruits that it offers at least once. And once tasted, never forgotten. You will not regret it, I promise you.’ But still she hesitated. He shrugged, arching his eyebrows in a gesture of regret. ‘Of course, I cannot force you.’ He spoke again to the boy, who plunged the needle for a second time, flipping the pipe over the flame and holding it steady for his master. The General sucked long and deep and lay back again, eyes closed, as the smoke drifted up from his open mouth.
Lisa finished the wine in her cup and rose unsteadily to her feet. Her resolve seemed to ebb away, her throat constricting in anticipation. She seemed drawn, irrevocably, to the pipe, sudden desire overcoming all doubts. ‘Alright,’ she said, her voice barely a whisper.
The General uttered a short command to the boy and rolled over on to his side once more. His eyes, though dark and strangely glazed, shone brightly. He held out a hand. ‘Come.’
She crossed to the bed and sat on the edge of it, watching fascinated as the houseboy kneaded a third ball of the hot paste on the convex margin of the bowl. She was aware of the General shifting on the bed beside her, of her shoulders being taken gently in his hands. The room seemed darker than when they had entered it. All fear, all doubts had gone, as though somehow she had left her will to resist downstairs among the Buddha images. Her mouth was dry and her face flushed hot. The General’s voice was soft and breathy, very close to her. ‘Do not try and draw it all in at once. You will find it hot on your throat at first. You may choke. Try and draw as much of it into your lungs as you can and release it slowly. The second pull will be easier.’
The boy plunged the needle, released the opium and flipped the bowl over the flame. The General eased her gently towards the outstretched pipe till her lips touched the ivory mouthpiece. The boy held it patiently as she took her first tentative draw, breathing it in as the General had told her. At once the smoke burned the back of her throat and she choked in a fit of coughing. The General held her firmly. ‘Again. Don’t be afraid, it will be easier this time.’ Her mouth and nostrils were filled by a musty, sweet taste, her throat still burning. She drew again and this time felt the smoke filling her lungs. And as she slowly exhaled, a soft relaxing wave seemed to break over her. ‘Again,’ the General’s voice was softly urging. She drew a third and fourth time before exhausting the opium and lying back, filled with a wonderful warm sense of euphoria. She closed her eyes, hardly aware of the General gently lifting her to lay her out along the length of the bed. Weightlessly she drifted back through space. Falling. Flying. Free.
When, finally, she opened her eyes the room seemed oddly cool. She shifted her head a little to one side. The oil lamp had been doused and the houseboy was gone. A hand turned her head back to face front, and soft wet lips pressed against hers, a tongue forcing them apart, flicking into her mouth. Panic rose in her throat. ‘No,’ she said, turning her face to one side, and the sound of her refusal seemed to come from very far off. She tried to push the General away, but her arms had no strength. ‘No,’ she said again, hearing the urgency in her own voice now. But it was all too late.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The rain raised a fine spray like mist from the river in the first grey light of dawn. It battered on the tin roofs of the buildings all along the wharf, filling the air with a constant drumming, drowning the slow chug-chug of the launch as it nosed its way gingerly into a deserted berth. The docks had a haunted air, eerie in the half-light, devoid of any sign of human existence.
McCue crouched, dripping, on the roof of the cabin, supporting himself on the machine-gun mounting and peering keenly through the saturated gloom. For a moment he tensed as he thought he saw a movement beyond the dark shadows of the empty sheds, then relaxed as he realized it was only a
skinny scavenging dog nosing its way through the debris in search of food.
There was a jarring bump, and a grinding of wood against concrete, as the launch came to rest against the wharf. The engine coughed and was silent, and McCue saw Elliot emerge from the cabin, crouching as he ran through the rain to the forward section of the boat to gather up the coiled painter. The Englishman glanced back at McCue, who nodded once and watched as Elliot leaped on to the quay and quickly wound the painter around a rusting metal capstan. Elliot now dropped to a crouch, swinging his M16 into readiness, and glanced around him. McCue jumped down on to the deck. Two pairs of frightened eyes peered back at him out of the gloom of the cabin.
‘Right,’ he whispered. He heaved his pack on to his shoulder and lifted a second. Ny already had Slattery’s pack firmly strapped to her back. They were heavy, stuffed with as many of the boat’s provisions as they could carry. McCue flicked his head towards the door. Supporting her mother on her arm, Ny moved out into the rain and headed forward towards the sodden red flag of the defeated Khmer Rouge.
Elliot waited with outstretched arm to help the two women on to the quay, M16 pointing up toward the leaden sky. Ny looked around in the growing light. She remembered the last time she had stood on this quay, with her mother and father and Hau, one family among thousands waiting to board the boats that would take them across the river to the Royal Palace to celebrate the Fêtes des Eaux; a colourful happy crowd, noisy and excited. Elliot touched her arm. ‘We’ll follow you.’
She nodded. He swung his pack on to his back, gripping her upper arm firmly, and the four moved off through the falling rain, passing beyond the vacant, dripping sheds, west towards the centre of the city, unaware that less than ten kilometres to the south the leading Vietnamese divisions were already on the move and would be here in a matter of hours.
Serey hobbled along behind, struggling to keep up, clinging to McCue’s arm, half dragged, half carried by him. The hard paving felt odd beneath her feet after the years of soft mud squelching between her toes in the paddies. Even the smell of the city seemed strange, though it was different now – not as she remembered it. There was a stink of decay carried in the air by the rain, like stale cooking and rusted metal. All around them lay the carcasses of war: tanks burned out by the victorious Khmer Rouge in ’75, jeeps overturned, APCs with noses buried in the walls of buildings. Drab, rain-streaked apartments loomed overhead, gaping windows staring down like sightless eyes, doorways smashed in like so many missing teeth in a sad smile.
