The Headmaster's Wager

by Vincent Lam

“Do you listen to the news with him?”

  “With who?”

  “When I am in Cholon, does he come here?” Percival had intended to sound angry, and instead heard his own fear.

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “How well do you know Peters?”

  “You were jealous this morning at the Cercle.” Her eyes softened. “You found Mr. Peters and me talking. You imagined something, but what you see is all there is. He is more your friend than mine.” Jacqueline reached out and took Percival’s hand to pull him down to the couch with her, but he resisted.

  “Then what did Laing Jai mean?”

  “By what?”

  “When he spoke of going to America.”

  “Sit with me,” she said. “I want to hear this.” She reached over and turned the radio back on. She folded her legs up, rested them sideways. He looked at her soft breasts, and now wished that she was clothed. Percival went into the bedroom and slowly got dressed.

  When he came back, the radio was still on. Jacqueline said with a nervous edge in her voice, “It’s always the same words, the complications in the way of peace, though everyone claims they want it.”

  Percival sat down. “The soil in this country is red from all the blood that is soaked into the earth. When each war ends, another soon begins. The Japanese, the French, now the Americans, someone else in the future, so what does it matter what they say in Paris? The land itself bleeds.”

  “You are so sure that these negotiations will not bring a peace?”

  “I have no opinion,” said Percival. “Why should I?” Now, being clothed while Jacqueline was naked made him feel awkward.

  “This war makes you rich,” she said.

  “English is my business. It is how I eat. It is how you eat.”

  “You Chinese think only of your business deals, but each time the flag changes, fresh pits are dug for the defeated.”

  “I am a headmaster. My students translate rather than fight. They save their blood. Some of them manage to go abroad. Do you see me in a uniform? ”

  “No, you don’t think of the graves. Only the gold.” She stood and went to the window. She pushed up a slat in the blinds, peered out into the afternoon. “Fine, if that’s your only concern. But do you ever think of us? What will we do, Laing Jai and I, if the flag changes again?”

  “You mean the three of us?”

  “Is it three?” She turned to him, still standing at the window. “Have you ever wondered why my mother sent me to study in your school?” Percival said nothing.

  “I studied English to leave Vietnam. My mother thought of it before it became such a popular thing. She knew that it was best for people like me to leave.”

  “Some go abroad,” said Percival.

  “Yes. As should we. If you think of us as three, let’s leave,” said Jacqueline, taking Percival’s hand. “That’s what I was talking to Mr. Peters about—how to escape. You ignore the dangers and make money. So the money is part of what traps you. But the Viet Cong tried to kill you four years ago. On the other side, you have friends in Saigon only as long as you give them piastres. You Chinese pretend that you stand apart, but your hands are in everyone’s pockets, and theirs in yours.”

  “Let’s talk when you are more calm.”

  “How can I be calm? I need to get out, and Laing Jai too. These negotiations may only allow the Americans to leave, not end the war. You know that. What will happen to us then?”

  “We Chinese bend like the grass, and the wind blows over.”

  “Spare me your cliché sayings. I am not Chinese. And Laing Jai isn’t, either. After the Americans are gone, we will be the garbage the Americans left behind.”

  “You worry too much,” Percival said.

  “In Hue, did they not kill the foreigners first?”

  “This is not Hue.”

  “At least the Northerners shot the foreigners. Their Vietnamese brothers and sisters, they buried alive. What will happen to Laing Jai and me? How will they decide whether to shoot us or bury us?”

  “If there is peace, then—”

  “If these fat men in Paris find a way for the Americans to abandon us, the Northerners will soon conquer Saigon. Then you will have been the whore of the Americans, and I will have been yours.”

  Percival said softly, “What is it you want?”

  “To leave Vietnam with my son. That’s what I’ve been talking to Peters about.”

  “No,” he shook his head. “That would …”

  “With you, too. I have asked Peters to see about exit permits. He is reluctant, because he wants your graduates for translators, but I’ve told him that Mak could run the school.”

  “You asked him for papers? To go to America?”

  “I’ve asked if he can get three visas. He says he may be able to.”

  He had not thought beyond the next week or month. So what could he say to Jacqueline now? Without knowing how he had arrived at it, Percival saw now that he had settled for living and loving only in the moment. When he ventured to consider the future, it felt like an empty, blank space.

  “We will always be together,” Percival murmured. He stroked her hair. He thought of Peters and his rubber smile. “But you must not speak to him anymore,” he said.

  “That jealousy.”

  “Please,” said Percival. “If he helps you, he will want something in return. I’ve seen how he stares at you.”

  She drew away from him and laughed. “Don’t be like a fragile boy. He looks at every métisse woman that way. Fine, that’s his particular taste. The Americans are not so good at hiding their appetites, which makes them easier to read. You Chinese are no more virtuous, just more circumspect. He will help us. You have sucked their dollars for so long, but you don’t know them at all.”

  “Sucking money is your habit, not mine,” said Percival.

  Jacqueline pulled away from him and went towards the bedroom, stopped short, turned, “I will speak to anyone I want! Who else will speak for me and my son?” She disappeared into the room.

  “There are other ways,” he called after her. He spoke into the closed door. “Mrs. Ling is getting into the departure business. She is selling visas. If we need to, we can go to her. But why rush to leave when I’m making so much money? There is no peace accord yet, and I have waiting lists at the school. I could add more classes, and raise the tuition further.” He could hear her moving in the room, but no reply came. “Maybe I could send some money abroad, to Switzerland, or Singapore. Would that make you feel better? Until there is peace, nothing will change.” There was no answer. He went on, “If something changes, we will decide then. After all, with me gone, maybe Peters and Mak would split the school’s profits. Why let Peters take my money and send us away?”

  Jacqueline appeared and shot back at him, “Sending people away is your specialty.”

  Percival felt as if a knife had entered him, had been plunged deep. He whispered, “What did you say? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m sorry,” she stammered, the venom gone. “I didn’t mean that.”

  He had once confessed to Jacqueline his tortured doubts about sending Dai Jai away. Time had helped him accept what he had done. Now, what had brought this rebuke? Percival’s words were fragile, his voice quiet. “I agree that we must think of Laing Jai’s future. But I would be less than nothing as a yellow man in a white country.”

  Now, gently, “How do you know that? Besides, it would be for your son. I will love you, rich or poor.”

  Percival walked up to Jacqueline, circled her waist with his arms, put his hands on the small of her back and kissed her slender, arched neck. He was supposed to say that he was willing, that she was right and he would do it, but he remained silent. He ran his hands up her back. She stood very still.

  Finally, he heard himself say, “Let’s see what happens in Paris, first. I will do what is best for us. I love you.” She put her arms around Percival and kissed him. He filled his mouth with her,
lest he say something that might frighten them both.

  AS THE PARIS TALKS DRAGGED ON with much spoken, little said, Percival and Jacqueline listened to the radio reports each afternoon. When the news was done, they went together to collect Laing Jai from the American School. As they walked over, they tensely circled the topic of departure, Percival hoping it would fade along with the prospects of peace. When he saw them, Laing Jai broke away from his teacher, who kept all of her four-year-olds behind the gates for fear of kidnapping, until their parents or nannies arrived. About two weeks after he had enthused about snow, Laing Jai ran to Percival, saying “Baba! Let’s go do something fun!”

  “What?” asked Percival, lifting him into the air. “Anything. You choose, my beautiful son.”

  “The zoo! Yes, baba, please!”

  They began to walk the few blocks in the shade of tall acacias. Workers were whitewashing the lower part of the trunks with a paint that smelled of chalk and lime.

  Laing Jai said, “They look like guards—in white boots! ”

  “What do you mean?” said Percival.

  “The trees.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” Percival agreed, and took his hand. Laing Jai had a flair for description. The zoo was a few blocks away. Percival and Jacqueline shared a silent relief to be all together, doing something.

  “The zoo!” Laing Jai let go of Percival, turned and skipped a few steps to Jacqueline. “Baba is going to take us to the zoo!” He ran back to Percival. “Can I have cotton candy at the zoo?”

  “Of course,” said Percival.

  Near the entrance, a vendor with a metal drum spun sugar into floss, and Laing Jai delighted in the coloured treat. He asked to see the elephant. They ambled over, and watched the flapping giant give herself a bath from a water barrel. Then they went to find the peacocks, who were crazed by the sun and fanned their feathers in an agitated display. The birds pecked at one another irritably. Was it the weather, or were the birds in heat? Percival wondered.

  There were many monks at the zoo that day, drifting and talking in their saffron robes. Was it a monastery outing? Something about them was purposeful. Some distance away, Percival thought he saw the one-eyed monk from Cholon, but then when Percival looked again, he was gone. It must be his imagination. Laing Jai pulled Percival’s hand down a path and called to his mother, “Mama, come, let’s go see the tigers.”

  The path led to a little plaza at the far end of the zoo, a shady area ringed by monkey cages and enclosures for the big cats. The plaza was fragrant with jacarandas. As they reached it, Laing Jai was startled by the sudden spitting clamour of the monkeys and ducked in close to his mother. A cluster of monks had gathered. An older one seemed to be in quiet, serious discussion with a clump of American men. Some of the Americans smoked cigarettes, and almost all had cameras in their hands or hung from their necks. Neither the monks nor the Americans appeared interested in the zoo animals. Instead, they watched each other.

  The fluidly pacing tiger always fascinated Laing Jai. He carefully approached the bars. Boy and cat assessed one another. In nearby cages, monkeys shrieked. The tiger’s tongue flicked out, his teeth bared. Just once, for show, and then he relaxed.

  “You are not scared, son?” Percival said.

  “No, these are steel bars, baba. If there were no bars, and the tiger was hungry, then I would be scared.”

  “Come farther away, son,” said Jacqueline.

  “Baba, the animals need to be in cages so that they don’t hurt us, isn’t that right?” The tiger stalked back and forth.

  “That’s right,” said Percival. “These are wild creatures.”

  “Different animals have different cages,” said Laing Jai. “The tigers live with other tigers. But they don’t mix monkeys and the tigers, because the tigers would eat the monkeys.”

  “Perhaps,” said Percival. “On the other hand, the monkey is clever and quick.”

  The muscular cat raised a paw and flicked his pink tongue. Reflexively, Percival pulled Laing Jai back a little.

  Around them, the crowd was growing thick, monks congregating from all the corners of the zoo. Americans fiddled with cameras. Some checked their watches. The one-eyed monk from La Place de la Libération hurried past. He did not give any indication that he recognized Percival. Like many of his brothers, he clutched a string of prayer beads.

  From beneath one of the monk’s robes emerged a large red plastic container. A little open space began to clear around him.

  Jacqueline said, “I think we should go.”

  “But ma, I am looking at the tiger,” said Laing Jai.

  “Let’s go,” she said softly, firmly.

  A megaphone appeared from beneath a second monk’s robe, and he, too, stood in the small open area. He began to read a statement in formal Vietnamese from a piece of paper. The megaphone squawked, and it was hard for Percival to understand.

  “What is going on?” said Percival to no one in particular.

  The colour drained from Jacqueline’s face. “They say their brother wishes to make a sacrifice. Let’s leave now!”

  Someone dashed past, bumped into Percival, almost knocked him over without apology. Percival looked around and couldn’t tell if it had been an American or a monk. He caught a few of the megaphone-distorted phrases, “… as his personal plea for peace … that the foreign occupiers leave.” They were now in the press of a crowd, people milling tightly together—cameras in hands, sandalled feet rushing here and there. A third monk stood in the cleared space between the one who held the red plastic container and the one with the megaphone. “… A fraudulent peace process, the deceit of colonialists …” The third monk closed his eyes and began to chant. His lone voice was plaintive. His brothers were a circle of flame-coloured robes around him. Jacqueline pulled Laing Jai’s hand, searched for a way out, but all the brothers were pushing in towards the centre. The third monk sat in the lotus position. The one with the container set it down and bowed to his seated brother. The monk with the megaphone continued to read the prepared statement, and the nearest circles of monks fell to their knees around these three.

  Cameras clicked, and somewhere a police siren wailed.

  Percival picked up Laing Jai, jostled to get out, but the crowd of monks was so thick around them that it was hard to move at all. Percival could see more monks running urgently down the zoo’s pathways towards the plaza, pressing in ever more. As the sirens grew louder, strong young novices began to form cordons between the animal cages. It was impossible to get out. The Americans with cameras checked their watches. Had they been given a time? They fiddled with their cameras, adjusted the dials. Monkeys leaped from bar to bar, reaching out to snatch at billows of saffron robes. Jacqueline cried, “We have to get out of here!” All around them, lines of monks linked arms, chanted, eyes half-closed.

  Laing Jai asked, “Baba, why are all the monks at the zoo? This isn’t a temple.”

  “Come … hold on,” said Percival. He tried again to push his way out, to cleave an opening in the robed bodies. There was no hostility, but there was no way through. Around the three monks in the open centre, kneeling monks formed concentric circles. The one with the megaphone now yelled into it, the words too crackled for Percival to make most of them out. In their cages, the tigers paced on edge, as if they were about to be fed. The middle monk sat, his chanting completed, his eyes closed. His brother raised the red plastic container and twisted the cap open. Percival smelled gasoline.

  An American near them gestured at Laing Jai and said to Percival, “Hey, you better get that boy out of here. This ain’t fit for kids to see.” They were hemmed in, no exit possible. On the other side of the high fence that stood behind the monks, there was a commotion. On the sidewalk, uniformed Saigon police shouted at the monks to disperse. It occurred to Percival that gasoline smelled like some kind of musky, overripe flower. He pressed Laing Jai to him, whispered not to look, the boy’s back to the sight of one monk pouring gasoline over his brother.


  The chanting of the prayers rose and overwhelmed the voices of the police. One policeman tried to hoist another up by his feet, but the fence was too high. Several officers dashed away. They must be running to reach the gates of the zoo, thought Percival. The first monk carefully tipped the gasoline container and its contents gurgled out of the spout as delicately as good wine. The seated man’s robe darkened, a streaky, spreading shadow. He sat upright now, quiet, his smooth shaved head glistening as the flow of gasoline was directed over it. The process was thorough and methodical. He did not move. Was he breathing? The monks chanted in rhythm and rocked back and forth in place. The gasoline canister was empty, and was placed delicately aside. Percival could not look away.

  Jacqueline clutched Percival’s arm, her mouth open, her eyes closed. The seated man took a deep breath. Around the plaza, police had reached the cordon. They shouted at the novice monks to give way, and when this was ignored, they began to club them with batons and pistol butts. The speech from the megaphone continued, now read quickly. The words condemned the oppression of the corrupt Saigon government, and the false peace talks. The megaphone voice hurried to finish, “… and so we cannot ignore the imperialist henchman, and in particular our beloved brother Thich Tri Huang … prefers to hasten his arrival in Nirvana,” and put down his megaphone.

  Percival pressed Laing Jai’s head into his neck and shoulder. The seated monk moved his lips without sound. Those close to him rocked back and forth, caressed their beads, prayed insensible to the shouting police who beat their young brothers. The first monk handed a packet of matches to the seated monk, who fumbled to open it, hands shaking, but determined. He selected a match. He looked at this small item for a moment, closed it in the striking surface of the packet, pulled, and then erupted with the noise of a small explosion, the air sucked in. He did not cry out at first, but only hunched forward, the contours of his body and robe all softened by the violent caress of undulating fire. Flame danced as if part of the saffron garment, and the seated man’s mouth was a black hole within his melting face. Somewhere within, the throat shrieked, gave agonized testimony. The colour of the fire and the fabric were one, until the fabric darkened to char. The voice was silenced and then there was only the sound of fire like water, like lapping waves.