by Vincent Lam
“Don’t bother,” said the officer, “your car is in worse shape than the plate. It is not worth a red packet. I am from Saigon. I have questions. I am with the police.”
“Is that right?” said Percival, though this was obvious. “How kind, you have come all the way from Saigon to speak to me.” He thought of Jacqueline, wished he had given her some instructions, some emergency funds, in case of his arrest. He had been too engrossed in their new child to think of it.
“Where can we talk, Chinaman?” asked the officer.
“Won’t you come in for tea?” He hoped this was the normal kind of police visit, that which had a cash price. Percival showed him into the school office. Percival used the delay to calm himself. He poured tea from a flask.
“What do you know about this?” said the officer. He tossed the licence plate with a clank onto the desk, and delicately lifted his tea cup between thumb and forefinger.
Percival glanced at the burned plate, thought of Han Bai. “My car was stolen that night, my driver killed. Are you hungry? My cook can prepare a snack.”
“I’m not hungry. You were not killed. Why not?”
“No one knows their appointed hour. I was here. They stole the car from across the square.”
“Who is ‘they’?”
“Thieves. Isn’t it thieves who steal cars?”
“Sure. A good car, a chaotic moment. Or it could have been the people who attacked that night.”
“You think the thieves were communists? Did I hear on the radio that Viet Cong were responsible for the attacks?” He should be careful, Percival reminded himself, not to feign ignorance to a degree that was unbelievable.
“And you had no idea that ‘they’ were going to use your car to attack an army post across the bridge?”
“Is that where it went?”
“You’re claiming that you didn’t know.”
“How could I know? ”
“It was your car.”
“How should I know what happened after my car disappeared? My driver was killed.”
“Unless you left it for the communists. Why did you leave it outside?”
“I couldn’t very well have gone out to retrieve it that night, not in the middle of the battle.”
“Then we do not need to suspect you?”
“Why should I be under suspicion?”
The officer sipped his tea. He put down the cup, and rapped the licence plate with his knuckles “People whose cars were used by the Viet Cong are being questioned. Meanwhile, I am always suspicious of people who answer my questions with further questions.”
“I’m sorry. I just have more questions than answers.” Percival hated the sound of his own voice right now—did it actually sound different when he was scared, or was it just that he heard it differently?
“Like insects, those Viet Cong cockroaches infiltrated all of the Southern cities in the weeks before Tet—invisible within the walls until they came scurrying out. It looks like many of their weapons were smuggled slowly into the cities, bit by bit, in carts of vegetables, in the trunks of private cars, some of which were later used in attacks. They rented rooms, met in secret, and moved around the city to plan their assault. We ask ourselves, why would they have had access to particular persons’ houses, phones, and vehicles? Some people helped them, sheltered them, gave them piastres and fed them. We must find those people. Everyone knows that the best way to wipe out insects is to get rid of their food.”
“I am an educator. I have nothing to do with the food business,” said Percival. “Officer, I have had enough bad luck. My car was stolen. By Viet Cong, from what you say. My driver was killed. I was fond of him. I will do anything to improve my luck. Perhaps a small donation to help you in your work?”
The officer said, “You must tell me everything you know.”
“The car disappeared, that’s all I know.” That was the trick of innocence, Percival reminded himself to repeat a simple thing. Further explanations suggested guilt.
The officer’s face was flat. “Did you know that your name was on a list?”
“A list?”
“Yes, an assassination list. It was in the pocket of one of the Viet Cong who was shot just outside of your school.” Percival thought of the men who had burst into the room where Jacqueline was giving birth. Percival had told himself it was just bad luck, that the assassination team had stumbled into Chen Hap Sing. They had seemed defeated, exhausted. Was that why they were so willing to kill, because they knew that their own end would surely come soon? “The communists were on their way to kill you. That is the reason I have not arrested you for providing your car to the enemy … yet.” The officer laughed.
“I had a narrow escape, then. One can be so fortunate without realizing.”
“Yes, quite,” the officer said. “Tell me about your friend. Do you trust your teacher Mr. Mak? How long have you known him?”
“I have known him since … well, since this school was started.”
“That’s when you met him, when you hired him as a teacher?”
“Yes.” He would not talk about the Japanese, decided Percival, or the Viet Minh. Even if half of the South Vietnamese generals had once been Viet Minh, the same was true of the Northern generals in Hanoi. That affiliation could still get someone arrested, or make a bribe more costly. This officer was sniffing around like a dog. Better not to give him something of Mak’s to chew on. Percival must return loyalty with the same.
“Would he become headmaster if you were killed?”
“He would be well suited.”
“Did he have access to your car?”
“No. Only my driver and myself had keys.” Percival thought of Mak and Han Bai dashing across the square towards safety, of Han Bai cut down, and pushed aside the painful memory. The bullets could just as easily have killed Mak, who did have a key to the car, of course.
“How do you think the Viet Cong took the car, then?”
Sweat trickled down the back of Percival’s neck. “My driver must have panicked and left the key in the car.”
“What kind of friends does Mak have? Does he visit any friends outside of the city, in the delta?”
Mak often went alone in the car to visit his own friends, his business acquaintances, people whom Percival knew nothing about. Sometimes the car came back red with mud. Percival had seen Mak wash it carefully in the alley before giving it back. “He goes to Saigon from time to time, always strictly on school business. If he ever went in the car, my driver took him. I’m not even sure Mak can drive,” Percival said.
“Someone who knows you put you on that assassination list.”
Perhaps this officer, like many in the army and the quiet police, needed to deliver some arrests, some villains. Or perhaps this situation simply created an opportunity for profit. It was hard to tell which this man was after. Percival said, “I don’t see why that would be necessary. Do you know what kind of school this is?”
“It is a language institute.”
“An English academy. We train people to work for the Americans. Naturally, my name was on a Viet Cong assassination list. Anyone in Cholon making such a list would include the headmaster of the Percival Chen English Academy, even if they hadn’t met me.”
The officer’s expression softened as he considered this. “And your teachers, do you have enemies amongst them?”
“They are too busy making money to be unhappy. When the fighting began, we were having a banquet. To celebrate Tet and our profits.” Percival watched the officer carefully, trying to see if this interested him.
“Let me put it to you plainly. You, your school, are under suspicion. Don’t think your son is forgotten either, though you’ve hidden him. In the papers that were found with the assassins, we saw that your roof was a rendezvous point.”
“Really? I suppose my roof has an excellent view of the square.” Percival told himself to be confident, to play it like a bad poker hand, with complete assurance.
“
My superiors are convinced there must be an infiltrator in your house. A Viet Cong. I’m not saying I necessarily agree, but you know how it is, bosses don’t like to be wrong. Mine has sent me to look for someone, and he will feel better if I bring him something. He will feel clever and satisfied.”
“I see,” said Percival. “But now that we have spoken, you see that everyone here is deeply involved in the war effort. You could point out a number of other explanations to your boss, for surely they exist.” Percival pulled out the drawer of his desk so that the cash he kept there for this purpose could be easily seen. “Here’s what you can take to your boss: everyone in Cholon knows that we’ve recently been given a special certification by the Americans—our students are exempt from their English proficiency tests. We are a natural target of the communists. The good side of this is that we have a lot of money. Do you want a snack now? I will go out and get my cook to make whatever you want.”
The police officer glanced at the tidy sheaf of piastres in the desk drawer. “Maybe I will have a snack after all. Perhaps I will bring a bite to my superior, who may be hungry.”
“Of course,” said Percival, standing, and leaving the drawer open. How wise of Mak, he thought. Mak must have his ways of profiting from the connections he maintained for the school, but staying in the shadows meant that the assassination squad did not look for him. Still, Percival could not fault Mak—he had understood the risk of that night and guarded his brother until he was safe. Besides, it was Mak’s arrangements that made it possible for Percival to sacrifice a drawer full of piastres to some nosy police.
WHEN JACQUELINE WAS NOT LISTENING TO radio reports of the heavy fighting in central Vietnam or immersed in the latest newspaper account of the battles on the Laotian border, she made every effort to bring light into the house. She would say that the fish that Foong Jie brought from market was the most beautiful tasting fish that she had ever eaten, and that the fragrance of the cook’s meals was enough to summon the kitchen god. She would urge the sweeper to take a rest, saying that he must surely be exhausted after cleaning the house so well. Cecilia had stormed about and complained with such relentlessness that it never occurred to Percival that a lady of the house could act with Jacqueline’s kindness.
Jacqueline seemed anxious to maintain Percival’s favour, too. Nightly, after Laing Jai fell asleep, she crept into Percival’s bed. If she came to him when he was half asleep and he suggested they might just lie together, she seemed worried. So he allowed her hands and mouth to explore his body and was soon glad that he did. In their quiet dark space of two, he often wished that she was not a former student. Even more so that she were Chinese. If she were, would he marry her? he allowed himself to wonder. The obvious answer came with an unfamiliar pain, for Percival was not accustomed to ignoring his own desires. Better not to think about it. After all, how could he explain to Dai Jai that he had married a métisse when he had forbidden Dai Jai’s own infatuation with a Vietnamese girl? How many times had he told Dai Jai the cautionary tale of Ba Hai? It was as if he could hear his own voice echoing in his ears—it was one thing to take a lover of another race, but a Chinese man should not marry a woman who was not Chinese.
What about the assassination list? If he had been on a list of targets, he must still be on it. When he stopped to consider this, Percival was forced to conclude that it might be safer for Jacqueline to remain at a little distance. What if the quiet police made a habit of visiting, and if one day a bribe was not enough? There was her apartment in Saigon. Might Saigon be better for their son as he grew older? After all, there were more mixed children in Saigon—Laing Jai would not be so unusual there. Jacqueline enjoyed the shopping on Tu Do, and the afternoon cinema. She could hire a servant who would treat her with respect. But Percival said nothing, for even as he mulled these thoughts, he knew that he wanted her to stay near him.
A WEEK AFTER THE VISIT BY the quiet police, Percival was in the school office, reviewing a new teacher’s lesson plans, when Jacqueline burst in and blurted out, “I miss my apartment in Saigon.” He could see that she had been crying. “I need to go back.”
“You’re right. We should go spend the day in Saigon. We could have lunch at the club.”
“No, I should return there. That is where I belong.” She stood in front of the desk, as if she were a student who had been caught misbehaving and sent to the headmaster. “I just can’t stay here anymore,” she said softly, tears running down her cheeks. “Can we go right now? I’ve packed my things.”
Percival looked at her, his throat tight, his hand poised but empty, for his pen had clattered to the desk. He knew it was his part to say that he wanted her to remain in Cholon, to confess that he did not care that she was not Chinese, to say that she meant more to him than whatever people might whisper in Cholon, and more than Foong Jie or Mak’s sour opinions. Had one of them somehow interfered? Jacqueline stood waiting for him to respond. It was his part to take her in his arms, to murmur that he had found his home in her, and the child they had together brought into the world, to admit that he had never expected this love to come from an encounter at the Sun Wah, but that although it terrified him, he was ready to give himself to it.
Percival picked up the pen. He fixed his eyes on it. He heard his voice saying, “I will take you back to Saigon. Today.”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, as soon as possible.”
At the apartment in Saigon, Percival told the taxi to wait for him. When they got to the front door, he mumbled something about it being fortunate that she was in such a modern building. It had an elevator. The bath was lovely. She began to cry. He shoved a large wad of money at her and fled. He hurried back to the taxi and dared not look back. There was no other way he could go through with it except like that—abruptly, cruelly.
When he got back to the school, Percival signed off on the lesson plan without reading the rest of it. There was a knock. After he entered, Mak closed the door. He stood with his hand on the knob. “The police from Saigon came to question you, didn’t they? About the disappearance of the car?”
Percival gestured that Mak should sit. He did this out of habit, for he wished that Mak would leave him alone. He said, “You have heard about it. Of course you have. You hear everything.”
“They were curious about that assassination list. Anyone with ties to the Americans was put on those lists,” said Mak.
“That’s what I assumed.” Percival did not move. Mak’s connections in Saigon had not deserted him, thought Percival, even if the quiet police were asking questions about him.
“Yesterday the police came to my home. They threatened to arrest me. They had questions about the car. It was used as a bomb, they said.”
“They asked me who had keys to the car.”
Mak nodded slightly. “Yes, a friend obtained a copy of the police report. It states that I did not have a key, as per Headmaster Chen. Thank you, hou jeung, that saved me.” Mak adjusted his position in the chair uneasily. “They are looking for hidden communists in Cholon and Saigon. They have been interviewing everyone in the square.” Mak looked at Percival. “They will lose their jobs if they can’t produce a few, don’t you think?”
“I don’t think about it.”
“Of course not,” said Mak. “It’s not your problem, but it could have been. After they spoke to you, it seems they decided to clear your name. However, later that same day, they interviewed Police Chief Mei. He’s an idiot. He said that he saw the assassins come down from your room, and that he chased them out of the school and shot them dead. Once they heard that, they suspected you once again. After all, how had you escaped death? ”
“Thanks to you, and to the birth of Laing Jai.”
“Well, they seemed to think I could explain, as Chief Mei said I was with you. They must have made him chief in Cholon precisely because he’s so inept. So, the quiet police came to me, hoping I would incriminate you. Just as they had pressed you, hoping you would incriminate me.” Mak shrugged. “T
hey need to find people to blame. That’s their job. Anyhow, I don’t think Mei was trying to betray you. He’s trying to get himself out of the mess he created when he claimed he had shot those men. It would have been better for him to have stuck to the truth, that he took off his uniform for as long as there was fighting.”
“You explained it to the quiet police, didn’t you? The assassins saw that Jacqueline was about to give birth. They took pity and did not kill me. My beautiful boy, Laing Jai, saved my life.”
“You think they would believe that? They are merciless killers. They have murdered pregnant women in the National Police Headquarters. They could never believe that you were spared out of compassion.” Mak sat back.
“Then are we still in danger?” asked Percival.
“No. I have fixed the problem.” Mak folded his hands together. “I told them that you took a country girl as a mistress almost a year ago. I explained that at Tet, when the Viet Cong came to kill you, she pleaded for your life. She was an enemy spy but she fell in love with you, and became pregnant with your child. At Tet, we realized she had been a Viet Cong agent when she was able to convince her comrades to spare you. Even the quiet police believe in the soft-heartedness of women.”
Percival recognized Mak’s look. It was the same when he was offering a clever deal or a bribe to an official in Saigon. He didn’t show any nervousness, but was very attentive, alert to the moment. Percival said, “What are you talking about?”
“Many such agents infiltrated Cholon and Saigon, to provide surveillance, strategy, and targets. The one who was here has fled. All the teachers and servants have agreed to endorse my story.” Mak put his hands on the desk, gestured as if there were a map there. “It’s perfect. Little did you know that in the weeks leading up to Tet your country mistress had been prowling around Cholon gathering information, helping to plan the offensive. Little did her superiors know, she was about to bear your child. They hadn’t seen her for months. Her commanders wrote the hit list, and put you on it. But she had grown fond of you, and convinced the assassins to spare you.” Mak was now slightly on edge.
