The Headmaster's Wager

by Vincent Lam

  “Go!” he screamed.

  “How could I know, you see, that I would love you so much? Why don’t you get better first, and then—”

  “I never want to see you again.”

  The doctor walked in, the syringe already poised in one hand. He laid a hand on Jacqueline’s shoulder. The doctor inserted the syringe into the intravenous. She stood, apologized, begged forgiveness, but already the nausea and soft warmth washed into Percival together, like a wave, and her words tapered away. She retreated towards the door, her face blank. The doctor and Mak stood at the bedside. She fled into the hallway and was gone. What were Mak and the doctor saying? Percival heard his own words as if through a fog, yelling at Mak, “You go as well!” More words, curses, his own muted voice drifting through the soothing blanket of a narcotic sleep, and Mak stood steadily at his side while the room went dark.

  CHAPTER 24

  AS DAYS BECAME A WEEK, THE operating rooms remained closed for lack of supplies. Mak offered piastres, but the drugs were still not available. The wound in Percival’s swollen right leg began to leak thick pus, and the skin around it was tight and sensitive. He could not tell whether he was delirious from fever, emotion, or the morphine, and each bled into the other. Thankfully, there was plenty of morphine. When Percival kept perfectly still, his left arm was tolerable, but even the slightest movement was excruciating. The doctor explained that it was healing in the wrong position. It would have to be re-broken and put together with plates in the operating room.

  Mak finally told the doctor, “Give me a list of the drugs you need. I will find them somehow.”

  The doctor wrote out a list of the anesthetics and surgical supplies that would be required if they were to operate. He said, “I’m sorry, it is not like before, when we had plenty of American supplies that I could sell to you. Back then, it was just a question of money. Now, we genuinely can’t get some things.”

  “But this is a government hospital. You still have American support, yes?”

  “The Americans promised they would continue to send us medical supplies, but perhaps that was just the polite thing to say as they were leaving. Or perhaps the supplies are being stolen, long before we see them.” The doctor shrugged. “My brother is an army helicopter pilot. Same thing. Half of the choppers sit on the ground, needing a part which the Americans promised to send.”

  Percival was soon in constant need of morphine. When one dose wore off, he shook, became soaked in sweat, and his muscles cramped. His bowels loosened, and he yelled for the nurse. He needed more and more. A small dose did nothing. He insisted upon large doses, with which he slept, and dreamt of Dai Jai, of Cap St. Jacques. Sometimes, as he drifted in and out of sleep, he heard himself, “If I could just see my son, I will recover.”

  The doctor’s private stock of morphine ran out, and Mak somehow obtained morphine, the glass vials stamped with Chinese labels. The fevers were constant. Mak checked in briefly, and disappeared to search both for the required surgical drugs and supplies as well as more and more opiate. He could barely keep up with Percival’s use. The doctor cautioned both men that an overdose could kill him. Percival thought nothing of this warning, and sometimes injected himself until he passed out. His leg now smelled like rotting meat.

  Sometimes, Percival felt sorry for himself. He missed Jacqueline, and wondered if he should have kept his knowledge of the truth from her, at least until he had healed. If she were here, she would comfort him, nurse him. But then his pride returned. If she were here, how could he pretend? After a week of searching, Mak had obtained all the necessary surgical supplies. The operation was scheduled. The doctors explained that the infection might have entered the muscle. They would see what the flesh was like inside the leg. If it was badly infected, they would have to amputate.

  On the morning of the surgery, Percival said, “Mak, if I die, you will still rescue Dai Jai, yes? You will take care of him, won’t you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Mak. He had slept on a cot next to Percival that night, guarding the box of precious supplies, and was exhausted. “You will have your surgery and soon be in recovery.” He took a vial of morphine from his pocket, cleaned the top, and drew out a dose.

  Mak injected the drug into the intravenous, just enough for Percival to reach a comfortable, lucid calm.

  “When will Dai Jai be here, Mak?”

  “He is on his way, friend. For his sake, you cannot die.”

  He felt distant from his own pain. “Dear brother Mak, you’re always right.”

  The nurse came and said they were ready. A porter wheeled Percival into the operating room.

  PERCIVAL OPENED HIS EYES. IT WAS night. The edges of the bandages were stiff and white, newly changed. The doctor was explaining the operation. Percival tried to concentrate, but the words kept drifting away … That they had re-broken the arm to set it properly. That the leg had been full of pus which was now drained. That he was lucky. That the bone was not infected, the muscles intact. That now, he would surely heal. Percival heard it as if it were someone else’s operation. There was a sharp pain from the leg, but the deep throb was gone. The tightness of flesh had been relieved, though it was still hot and red. A vial of antibiotics hung above him, the intravenous line snaking into his uninjured arm. It hung in a convenient position, thought Percival, for him to inject himself. The damaged arm felt comfortable in its new cast. The doctor declared himself pleased, the operation was a great success. At this, Mak produced a fat red envelope, which he gave to the doctor, and the doctor bowed slightly, accepting this further reason for happiness.

  Percival heard his own slurred voice. “You must give him gold. A bar of gold.”

  “American dollars are fine, hou jeung, you rest now.” The envelope disappeared into the doctor’s pocket.

  “Go on a holiday, then, to the coast, Saigon is a dying patient.” Even as he heard his own words, Percival knew they did not make sense.

  Mak bowed to the doctor. “Thank you, Doctor, thank you.”

  When the doctor left, Percival said, “Where is Jacqueline? Why is she not here? Tell her I would like to go home, as soon as possible.”

  “You will go home once you are better. To Chen Hap Sing.”

  “No, to Saigon. I would like to see Laing Jai. Where is my little boy?”

  “Friend,” said Mak. “Good news came to me while you were in surgery. Dai Jai is safe. He is out of China, safe in the North, in Hanoi.”

  “In Hanoi? Why Hanoi? They say the enemy is there, in the north.” Percival began to giggle.

  “How do you think we got him out of China? Beijing and Hanoi are friends.”

  Then Percival slowly remembered why Jacqueline was not there, and would not be coming. He felt the loss as if new. “When will Dai Jai be here? How will you bring him from Hanoi all the way to Saigon?”

  “We will find a way.”

  “Thank you, Mak,” said Percival. “This news is better than any medicine.”

  Mak prepared a dose of morphine, tapping the bubbles out of the syringe. Percival thought to protest that he wanted answers more than painkillers, but the clear liquid invited him. Just the sight of the brown glass vials filled him with anticipation.

  THE DOCTORS WERE PLEASED WITH THE wound’s progress. The stench of decay dissipated. Mak spent less time at the hospital, and he told Percival that he must turn his attention to the school. Neither of them mentioned Jacqueline. Now that Percival was healing, Mak’s visits were regular, cheerful, and brief. Every evening, he brought food, and morphine with labels in Chinese. Each vial had a delicate neck, with a small bulb above and the drug in the tiny flask below. Percival quickly mastered the trick of tapping any stray drops from the bulb down into the flask, of breaking the neck without cutting his fingers, of drawing up his dose and injecting it. He knew how much to draw up just by looking—and did not need to examine the markings on the syringe.

  The food Mak brought was plain but rich—rice and pickled eggs, noodles and b
arbequed pork. He gathered up the dishes afterwards and rushed away. Mak had always been a friend, but never a nursemaid. In his eager solicitations, Percival saw the burden of his guilt. As much as Percival needed Mak to take care of him, Mak was anxious to atone for what had happened at the shack. Gradually, Percival’s appetite returned.

  As long hours passed, alone in his hospital room, he longed for her, and wished he had never met her. She must have some money, he hoped, for she had never seemed to spend all he gave her. Then, he mused bitterly, had she foreseen that this situation would arise, that the truth would come out and she would need to be financially prepared? That must be it. Now, in the next moment, he found himself worrying, what if she did not have any piastres left? How would she live, and care for Laing Jai? He did not want her and Laing Jai to be forced from the apartment for lack of funds, as she and her mother had once been forced out by her father’s abandonment. Should he send her some money with Mak? No, it was best to keep him out of it. Every time he saw Mak, Percival asked him if there was any news of Dai Jai. He could not help asking. Dai Jai was safe, Mak always said. He was on his way. Mak offered nothing more, and Percival did not wish to make himself even more dependent by pressing for information.

  In lucid moments, when there was less drug in him, Percival rehearsed his words to Dai Jai. Would he apologize? But for what? he thought indignantly. For sending Dai Jai to China? It had been to protect him—he could not have predicted what would happen there. For loving Jacqueline? He had loved Jacqueline without knowing the truth. If he hadn’t, who knew what would have become of her. So, perhaps no apology was necessary. He was a good father. Now that he had discovered that Dai Jai was suffering, he had arranged to bring him out of China. When he discovered the love between Dai Jai and Jacqueline, he had sent her away. What more could he have done? Besides, how could a father ask forgiveness of a son? However numerous these justifications were, the guilt was unchanged. He craved morphine. Hated himself for it. Thought of Chen Kai’s addiction.

  A week after the operation, Percival said, “Mak, bring me some of my clothes.”

  “You aren’t going to flee the hospital, are you? You are still not well,” said Mak.

  “The doctors won’t even let me get out of this bed. I just want to be dressed like myself.”

  Mak complied with Percival’s request and brought him several shirts and pants, though no shoes. Percival said nothing of it. In fact, the doctors had pronounced his leg sufficiently healed for him to stand, and encouraged him to do so. The first time he tried, his legs were so weak that he stood for a moment and then half-fell onto the nurses helping. Gradually, he was able to get up on his own. When Mak was not there, Percival forced himself to stand for as long as he could, and sat, caught his breath and stood once more. Several times, he almost fell to the floor, but managed to end up on the bed. He continued until exhausted.

  Each day, Percival exercised his legs as much as the slowly healing limbs allowed. He traded two vials of morphine with a porter for a pair of brown loafers and hid them beneath his bed. Meanwhile, by careful dosing, he built up a stockpile of narcotic. He ate all of the food that Mak brought and asked for more. Mak exuded forced cheer, excessive enthusiasm for feeding his old friend, though he never stayed for long. If he happened to come when Percival’s dressings were being changed, Mak briefly glanced at the wounds but quickly summoned a smile and a greeting.

  Percival thanked Mak for helping him, apologized for being such a nuisance, and lamented the fact that he was still too weak to stand. Mak told him to take his time, reassured him that all was well at the school. When Mak was gone, Percival walked unsteadily across the room and back. At first, he had to rest on the bed after doing this once, but he made himself do more. Finally, he could walk in circles for five minutes before being forced to sit. His legs were weak, but did not give way on him. One idea haunted him whether he was sober or drugged—the idea of being in the same room with Dai Jai and Jacqueline, all three unable to look at one another, unable to speak. He knew what he had to do, the one solution that would keep this from happening.

  During the siesta one day, Percival dressed himself, put on his shoes, and pocketed a needle, syringe, and all of the little brown glass morphine vials that he had accumulated. He checked that the hallway was empty, and slipped out of the hospital. He had come to a decision. He would ensure that Dai Jai never confronted the triangle that included his lover and his father. Outside the hospital gates, the city sprang upon Percival—yelling vendors brandishing food, gesturing beggars, former soldiers with limbs missing, and beckoning cyclo men advanced towards him like shock troops. He waved at a cyclo driver and half-fell into the chair as he gave the address of the Saigon apartment. He was both exhilarated and terrified to be out of the hospital, on his way to Jacqueline and the solution to his problem. He was scared of what he was about to do, but he could not inflict on Dai Jai the pain of returning to Saigon to find the truth.

  Percival went up to Jacqueline’s apartment in the clanking elevator. He knocked on the door, his knuckles making a hollow appeal on the wood. There was no answer. Perhaps Jacqueline had gone out for a walk. Laing Jai should be at his school right now, he thought, grateful for the boy’s absence. He knocked again and called her name. He fingered the morphine, the syringe and needle in his pocket. Should he go out into the street to look for her? The apartment was quiet, yet she felt close.

  Then Percival thought he heard the tone of her voice within, a low word. His imagination? He banged at the door, “Jacqueline!” He thought of her smell, the comfort of her arms. She might just be waking from a siesta. Seconds, a minute, passed. The door did not open. Had his ears tricked him? He was near collapse from this effort, his heart pounding, or was that from his fear of what he must do? The frosted window at the end of the hallway glowed silently.

  Perhaps he should go through the market. At this hour, Jacqueline might be buying food for dinner. She would be surprised to see him on his feet. Would she embrace him? He wanted to hold her one last time. What if she had moved away to a cheaper apartment? What then? How would he find her? Perhaps Mrs. Ling would know, he thought, with a sinking stomach.

  These thoughts tumbled along as Percival stood exactly where he was. His fingers lay flat on the door. He banged at it again, heard himself breathing. He leaned against the door frame, unable to tell whether seconds or minutes or years had passed. Then he heard feet on tile. Jacqueline appeared. She wore a silk robe. Without interruption of thought, he kissed her, embraced the solidity of her body, his hands instinctively slipped within the robe, felt her warm hips.

  She stepped back, turned her mouth away. “What do you want?” She gathered up her silk robe and wrapped it around herself.

  “To make things right.” He shoved his hand in his pocket, clicked the vials of morphine, reminded himself that there was only one solution to this problem.

  The apartment looked exactly as it always did, but something was different. Was it the smell? Perhaps it just seemed new to him after weeks in a hospital bed, as the city itself had.

  “You can’t make things right,” she said. Firmly, Jacqueline eased Percival back towards the door.

  “Wait,” he said, stumbling, realizing the frailty of his injured body. “Listen to me. I have thought of a solution.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You can have what you have always wanted.” He braced himself against the door frame.

  “Please go, don’t make it worse.” But she did not move to push him out. She crossed her arms over her chest.

  “I have been thinking about this difficult situation.”

  “Is that all it is?”

  “Dai Jai will be back soon. I want to have my son back. But I love you more than I ever imagined I could.”

  “There is no use in saying these things,” she said, eyes wet.

  “I have the solution—a way for you to be happy, and for me to have Dai Jai back.”

  “You had bett
er go.” Jacqueline glanced back towards the bedroom.

  “I will pay anything, any price, to buy you and Laing Jai a way out of Vietnam. I have connections with the Americans, and money. You have friends at the Cercle. Mrs. Ling sells departures. The price does not matter. I will mortgage the school, if needed. We will find a way.”

  Now she pulled her robe tighter around herself. She did not come closer. Percival had expected that she would be happy, or at least grateful. Instead, Jacqueline seemed shocked. Was she thinking about it, he wondered, what was there to think about? It was what she wanted. Slowly, she shook her head. “It’s too late. A long time ago, I pleaded with you that we should all leave. You should have done it then.” Her face began to crumple.

  Percival reached for her shoulder, but she shook him off. He said, “I will not go, but I will send you. Don’t you see? Whatever happens in Vietnam, you will be safely in America. Dai Jai will return here, and I will have my son. He will not hate me for loving you. I’ll even send you with money. Take it all, what use is it to me?”

  “As if I was never part of either of your lives,” she said.

  “It’s a solution,” he said weakly. “It’s the best I can think of.”

  “Hou jeung,” she said, “I am paying for my own departure.” She turned and went down the hallway. Percival followed her towards the bedroom. In the doorway, he stopped. Jacqueline stood next to the bed, lost. The sheets were jumbled on the floor. On the near side of the bed sat Peters, fumbling to do up his belt. His feet were bare and his shirt open.

  Peters froze. He said quickly, “Percy, there’s some misunderstanding here. If I had known you were still—”

  “I understand,” said Percival.

  Jacqueline slumped on the bed. “Mr. Peters is going to take us away.” Then she added, “We have fallen deeply in love.” She looked at Percival. “I will be Mrs. Peters. We will raise Laing Jai as our own son in America.”