The Headmaster's Wager

by Vincent Lam

  Every year, the Clan Association took up a collection for schools and hospitals in China, and Percival was one of its most generous supporters. He said, “I don’t know anything about communists. I am a patriotic Chinese, and I send money to help my country.” He also sent money every year to a poor cousin in Shantou to maintain Muy Fa’s grave, and the cousin sent letters that both praised Percival’s generous remittance and listed the wonderful developments in the new China. “My cousin writes that things are better all the time in China. Dai Jai should be in his own country. Mak says he might be able to get him there.”

  “Don’t you ever wonder how Mak can do these things? Is it normal for a school teacher to know everyone of importance in Saigon? And how could he get Dai Jai to China?”

  Percival signalled the waiter. “That’s Mak’s private business. I don’t involve myself.” He ordered a Martell and Perrier, didn’t ask Cecilia if she wanted a drink. Mak lived exactly as one would expect a teacher to live, comfortably but modestly. He did not siphon even a little money from the school, as many right-hand men in successful businesses would be expected to do. So what difference did it make to him what Mak used his contacts for? Perhaps the school gave Mak cover, a legitimate reason to have connections through which he found other business. However he profited from his connections was his own affair. The waiter brought the drink, a twisted napkin around the stem beneath the frosted glass. There were discreet men in Saigon and Cholon who, it was said, had all their gifts and envelopes deposited in overseas accounts. That would be like Mak—the kind who did not need to taste and touch his profits. For some, Percival supposed, the existence of money was its own satisfaction. Percival lifted the glass, enjoyed the tickle of mineral-water bubbles in the cognac. He did not see the point of such asceticism, but some did. “Oh, did you want a drink?” he asked Cecilia.

  “Not with you. One day Mak will be arrested for something, or he will turn up dead. He is deep into something, and you just don’t know what it is.”

  “And why should I ask? He always comes through.” He hoped Mak could find people who could get Dai Jai to China. If they were criminals, what well-connected person did not step in and out of the law as the occasion required? Percival put the glass down and repeated, “What I know is that Mak can get Dai Jai back to China.”

  “Just as your father tried to return, while there was still a war under way,” she shot back. “To this day, you don’t even know where his corpse lies.”

  Percival’s anger flared in his stare, so glaring that Cecilia looked away, a rare flinch. “Sorry.”

  “Let’s not get into our own battles again,” he said. Cecilia usually reserved this painful barb, the journey of Chen Kai, for the height of an argument rather than its beginning. “I’m trying to get our son away from this war.”

  “America would be even safer.”

  “They can draft him there, too.”

  “France, then.”

  “Besides, how will you get him out? Half of your clients sell the guns Dai Jai is now being called up to carry. You think your business partners can get him a visa just like they get you military scrip? They wouldn’t even help you find him in a Saigon jail.”

  “The piastres you get as tuition are printed in the same press. You think Mak can do something beyond bribing Saigon officials?” she said. “Let’s see who can find a way abroad sooner.”

  Since Dai Jai’s appetite had returned, Percival directed Foong Jie to serve rich dishes—wheat noodles in pork-bone broth, pickled eggs, dry shredded meat—to build Dai Jai’s strength. Percival tolerated the smell of nuoc nam at the table, which Dai Jai liked to flavour his soup with. During breakfast a week after the draft notice came, Percival said, “Son, a minor issue has come up. I don’t want you to worry, because I’m going to fix it.” He slipped the envelope across the table.

  Dai Jai read the paper. He pursed his lips slightly, but his face barely reacted. The boy was still in shock, Percival decided. His reactions were still numbed by his ordeal. Clearly it would be dangerous for him to be in the army.

  Percival said, “I will find a way to keep you out of it.”

  “I know boys who have gone into the army.”

  “Vietnamese.”

  “Some people buy safe postings. The post just over there is all people who paid for it.” Dai Jai pointed to the quiet army post across La Place de la Libération, in the shadow of the church. Connections and money should be able to manage that, but now Percival was not sure of his influence in Saigon.

  “The best thing will be for you to get out of Vietnam. Mak tells me he has already found a possible route to China.”

  At this, Dai Jai sat up straight. “Leave Vietnam? After being drafted? They check the draft lists at the airport.”

  “Your father has lots of gwan hai,” Percival said. “You know, when I was a small boy, my greatest dream was to study in Shanghai, or in Beijing. You could have the opportunities I never had. You could be a real scholar.”

  Dai Jai resumed eating as a worried look spread over his face.

  Cecilia made inquiries in Saigon about sending Dai Jai to France or America, but Percival had been right. It could not be done. The draft notice blocked every avenue, trumped every favour that she tried to call in. Every Frenchman sent her to another office, to pay another bribe, to find another dead end. They shrugged, ever polite, blamed bureaucracy with Cecilia’s money in their pockets. Her American friends told her that if her son had not been drafted, they might have been able to do something. As it was, they could hardly interfere with the South Vietnamese Army’s draft. They had enough problems in America with their own draft dodgers.

  Meanwhile, Percival made only the monthly money-circle and minimum loan interest payments as he put away cash for the expense of sending Dai Jai abroad. Mak said he was getting close to settling the route for the journey abroad, but it would be expensive, at least five thousand American dollars. Cecilia mocked Percival’s gullibility when he told her the price. She refused to contribute to it. Clearly, Mak was taking a cut, she said. When the garage owner saw Percival driving up to pawn the Peugeot again, he laughed and called out a price even before the headmaster stepped out of the car.

  Two weeks after the draft notice, Mak came and explained the details of the plan to Percival and Dai Jai. Dai Jai, dressed in shabby clothes, would pretend to be a local trader and travel with a snakehead on a local bus to Cambodia with several suitcases full of transistor radios. It was a bus that traders often took to sell U.S. Army PX goods in Phnom Penh, and Mak would pay the officer in charge at the border to simply collect his usual bribe from the traders without checking their documents. He did that often enough anyway, but Mak would pay the officer to ensure it. Once across the border, an old friend of Mak’s would take care of Dai Jai, arranging documents and air tickets. From Phnom Penh, there were flights to China. Once he was in China, Dai Jai would be fine. Every Chinese had the right to return. Mak had been in touch with an educational cadre at a secondary school in Shanghai who had agreed to register Dai Jai. Had Percival raised the cash? Mak asked. Cecilia might be right, but Percival did not mind. Mak deserved a cut, after all. Percival handed him the money. He did not look to see what Dai Jai’s reaction might be—taking his silence as agreement.

  That evening, Percival sought out Dai Jai on the balcony. To see him in the half light of dusk carefully tending his fish, his bruises healed and his hair grown back, one might forget that he’d ever gone to the National Police Headquarters. Percival did not dare stir up the recent past by saying how much better Dai Jai looked, or by saying how happy he was that his son moved with some of his old confidence.

  Percival said, “You must be excited, about your trip to China.” He said it as if it were a trip to Dalat, the resort town, or a holiday in Paris.

  Dai Jai hesitated before saying, “I didn’t think it was possible. Not with the politics here, or even the situation in China.”

  Was the boy’s expression one of alar
m? “Don’t be scared. You won’t be caught. Did you think I was going to let you enlist in the South Vietnamese Army? Everything is arranged for you to return home.”

  Dai Jai stopped skimming the surface of the water. “How can I return somewhere that I’ve never been? I don’t want to go.”

  “You are Chinese,” said Percival with finality. Dai Jai stared deep into the fish tanks without a word. It seemed he was expecting Percival to say something else. Perhaps the boy did not understand the situation, the dangers of the South Vietnamese Army for a Chinese. Or was this Cecilia’s fault? Finally, Percival said, “Has your mother given you the idea of America? Even with many so-called American friends, she cannot arrange it. Impossible, now that you’ve been drafted. Your name comes up on lists. Or does she talk to you now of France? What good have the French ever been to us Chinese, or any white people? You would be miserable in a land of the gwei lo.” How could the boy even contemplate living amongst the white ghosts?

  Dai Jai looked straight at his father. “It’s not that I want to go to America or France. I just don’t want to leave.” Dai Jai nudged a fish with the net, gently. It skittered around gracefully in the tank. Percival saw how fearful Dai Jai was of saying this, and this tempered his response.

  He had come up to the balcony expecting Dai Jai to be excited, perhaps thrilled. Or at least appreciative. He said quietly, “I wish I could go to China myself, but I must stay here, pay the debts, and save the house that your grandfather built. When he left Shantou, Chen Kai only intended to make his fortune and return. He got stuck here—he stayed longer than he intended, and built Chen Hap Sing. But in the end, after finding the Gold Mountain, the only thing your grandfather wanted was to return to his home village. He regretted not going back sooner. Now, you have that chance. Maybe I’ll join you, even. Maybe after I’ve paid the debts and saved up some money.”

  “How much?”

  “Once I have enough,” said Percival reassuringly. “You can’t imagine how happy your grandfather would be, to know that you are returning to China.”

  “But you never heard from him again. Obviously, he must have been—”

  “Shh!!! My father picked a terrible time to make the journey. That was because he waited too long. He travelled towards danger, but you are travelling away from it. The ancestors’ ghosts will be happy for your return.”

  “I heard on the radio that the People’s Committees have banned the Parade of Deities celebration. They say people must stop worshipping the ancestors, because in the new China—”

  “You are very lucky that Mak has been able to arrange for you to study in Shanghai. This is not easy. I am still struggling with my gold debt, but I will send you with ten taels to pay your expenses.”

  Percival could see that Dai Jai remained doubtful. He struggled for something to say and could only come up with platitudes that suited any Teochow primary school lesson. He used them regardless. “Don’t you know the greatness of the Chinese civilization? We conquered Annam two hundred years before Christ was born. We invented paper money and gunpowder.”

  “And now the Americans are the masters of both of those things, and this place.”

  Percival did not know what to say. He was terrified to think of his son in a South Vietnamese uniform. “The greatest minds of all civilization—Emperor Wong, Confucius, the Cheng brothers—all derived their wisdom from their mother China. You will thrive in Shanghai. You will get a better education than you could ever hope for here in this muddy backwater.” Percival searched Dai Jai, who still seemed unconvinced. He added desperately, “The girls there are prettier than any here, and far more elegant.”

  “I’m supposed to report to the army in a few days. Maybe I will get a post in Saigon. Even if not, I can try to get home for the festivals.”

  “I don’t want you fighting amongst Vietnamese. Chinese soldiers don’t last long in their army. Look, they fight a war against their own people. For what reason? I can’t tell you why. No one can. How stupid.”

  “Are we Chinese better? What about Mao and Chiang Kai-shek—”

  “Believe me, if they can kill their own brothers, they aren’t bothered by shooting us Chinese, even if you wear the same uniform.”

  “I know what people say … but what if I just report for training and speak only Vietnamese? I will never speak Chinese, and that way I will blend in.”

  This was the boy who had protested the new Vietnamese language regulation, and suffered so much for it? Now, he declared so casually that he would never speak his own language? Percival was frustrated, about to yell at him, but found the words stuck in his chest. Perhaps the beatings his son received had affected his views, had made him decide it was wrong to declare himself Chinese. All the more reason to send him to China. Percival found his voice cracking. “You want to crawl in the jungle and wait for a bullet in your back? In China, you can study. Here, you are forbidden to register even in your own father’s school. Mak has found a way for you to leave, and you must use it!”

  Dai Jai caressed the side of a tank, which attracted the angel fish to come and kiss the glass. “I am at home here.”

  “For what reason?” asked Percival. He seized the skimmer from his son’s hand and waved it. “Is it for your girl? There are girls in China. You will find them anywhere.”

  “You should know,” said Dai Jai.

  Percival raised the skimmer, as if to hit Dai Jai with it, and saw the boy recoil. He threw the skimmer across the balcony, heard it skitter on the marble.

  “I will go as you wish, Father,” Dai Jai said, his words quivering.

  “Gwai jai,” said Percival. Obedient boy. He said softly, “This whole episode will turn out to be a blessing in disguise, for spurring us to send you to China. You will visit my mother’s shrine, and in Shantou you can enjoy Zhong Shan Park, the most beautiful park in the world.” Percival walked across the balcony, retrieved the skimmer, handed it to his son apologetically. Dai Jai resumed tending his tanks with shaking hands. Percival fled. He felt relief, a lifting of a weight. One day, soon, in fact, the boy would thank him for forcing this. What else should a father do? He found Foong Jie downstairs, gave her the ten taels of gold that he had bought for Dai Jai, and instructed her to sew it into Dai Jai’s most sturdy trousers and show him where it was hidden.

  Two days later, five days short of Dai Jai’s date to report for basic training, Cecilia came early in the morning to say goodbye to their son. It was still dark. Dai Jai clutched a bundle of his favourite foods, which Foong Jie had prepared for him. Cecilia held him in her arms for a long time in the front hallway. The smuggler arrived with their props, two large boxes of cheap Sanyo radios. Percival had intended a bright send-off, to be as cheery and celebratory as possible. He had chosen a verse of classical Tang poetry. He would wait for Cecilia to finish her embrace. Then, Dai Jai squirmed out of his mother’s arms, his own face wet, suddenly in a hurry to leave. He went out the door, and everyone followed him. An overnight rain had left the square freshly rinsed, cool. Once they were out of the house, Percival called for Dai Jai to wait a moment, found that his poetic quote had been erased from his mind, and fumbled awkwardly in the dark to embrace his son, throwing his arms around the boy’s shoulders. Mak stood a little way off in the dark. He had come to make sure everything went smoothly, and was acting as lookout, scanning the square.

  Percival had a wild thought. What if he told the smuggler to go away, that he was not needed? But if Dai Jai were to stay, he did not have time to buy a safe post now. Another idea flashed before him—he could go with Dai Jai and leave the school and house in Mak’s care, but no, there were the pyramids of debt. To leave Chen Hap Sing would almost certainly be to lose it. No, this was correct, the best possible action. These speculations vanished as quickly as they had arrived. He must let Dai Jai go. The boy would be safest with other Chinese. He loosened his hold, held Dai Jai’s shoulders in his hands.

  “Why are you sad?” asked Dai Jai. “Are you disappoin
ted in me, Father? For what I did, and all the trouble?”

  Percival said, choking on his own tears, “No. Don’t say that—you are our only son. It hurts me to send you away, but I think it’s best.”

  “I know, that’s why I’m going.”

  “Because it’s the best thing. Yes.”

  Dai Jai said quietly, “I’m going because you think it’s best.”

  Against the first glow of an ashen sky, the limbs of the flame trees seemed oppressive, and dark. The smuggler murmured that they must not miss the bus. Dai Jai nodded and hoisted his box of radios.

  Cecilia wanted to go to Dai Jai’s room. They stared at his empty bed, his desk. They went out onto the balcony. The fish tanks had been scrubbed spotless and shone like gems beneath the pre-dawn sky. When the light appeared, they looked out into the square below. Percival was fearful and hopeful—if something went wrong perhaps he would see the smuggler returning with his son. Perhaps they would miss the bus. Perhaps the bus would have a mechanical problem. But the square began to fill with vendors and cyclo men, without any trace of Dai Jai.

  Percival said to Cecilia, “Do you remember, when we arrived in Cholon, this was the first room in the house that we saw.”

  “How could I forget? If the Asama Maru had been returning to Hong Kong, I would have gone back to the wharf.”

  The bedroom that was emptied by Dai Jai’s absence was the same room that had once been Chen Kai’s. It had the best view of the square. It received the most breeze, through the two French doors that opened onto the balcony. Through it, air moved through the whole family quarters.