The Honorable Schoolboy

by John le Carré

  It was capped by the Counsellor’s easy laughter as he addressed his wife. “Ah, well now, that wasn’t the eclipse, I’m afraid, was it, Hills? That was the advantage of having Lon Nol as our neighbour. One of his pilots gets fed up with not being paid now and then, so he takes up a plane and has a pot-shot at the palace. Darling, are you going to take the gels off to powder their noses and do whatever you all do?”

  It’s anger, Jerry decided, catching the senior American’s eye again. He’s like a man with a mission to the poor who has to waste his time with the rich.

  Downstairs Jerry, the Counsellor, and the American stood alone in the ground-floor study. The Counsellor had acquired a wolfish shyness.

  “Yes, well,” he said. “Now I’ve put you both on the map, perhaps I should leave you to it. Whisky in the decanter, right, Westerby?”

  “Right, John,” said the American, but the Counsellor didn’t seem to hear.

  “Just remember, Westerby: the mandate’s ours, right? We’re keeping the bed warm. Right?” With a knowing wag of the finger, he disappeared.

  The study was candle-lit, a small masculine room with no mirrors or pictures, just a ribbed teak ceiling and a green metal desk. The geckos and the bullfrogs would have baffled the most sophisticated microphone.

  “Hey, let me get that,” said the American, arresting Jerry’s progress to the sideboard, and made a show of getting the mix just right for him: water or soda, don’t let me drown it.

  “Seems kind of a long way round to bring two friends together,” the American said, in a taut, chatty tone, from the sideboard as he poured.

  “Does rather.”

  “John’s a great guy, but he’s kind of a stickler for protocol.

  Your people have no resources here right now but they have certain rights, so John likes to make sure that the ball doesn’t slip out of his court for good. I can understand his point of view. Just that things take a little longer sometimes.”

  He handed Jerry a long brown envelope from inside the tartan jacket, and with the same pregnant intensity as before watched while he broke the seal. The paper had a smeared and photographic quality.

  Somewhere a child moaned, and was silenced. The garage, Jerry thought: the servants have filled the garage with refugees and the Counsellor is not to know.

  ENFORCEMENT SAIGON reports Charlie MARSHALL rpt MARSHALL scheduled hit Battambang ETA 1930 tomorrow via Pailin . . . converted DC-4 Carvair, Indocharter markings manifest quotes miscellaneous cargo . . . scheduled continue Phnom Penh.

  Then he read the time and date of transmission and anger hit him like a wind storm. He remembered yesterday’s foot-slogging in Bangkok and today’s hairbrained taxi ride with Keller and the girl, and with a “Jesus Christ” he slammed the message back on the table between them: “How long have you been sitting on this? That’s not tomorrow. That’s tonight!”

  “Unfortunately our host could not arrange the wedding any earlier. He has an extremely crowded social programme. Good luck.”

  Just as angry as Jerry, he quietly took back the signal, slipped it into the pocket of his jacket, and disappeared upstairs to his wife, who was busy admiring her hostess’s indifferent collection of pilfered Buddhas.

  He stood alone. A rocket fell and this time it was close. The candles went out and the night sky seemed finally to be splitting with the strain of this illusory, Gilbertian war. Mindlessly the machine-guns joined the clatter. The little bare room with its tiled floor rattled and sang like a sound machine.

  Only as suddenly to stop again, leaving the town to the silence.

  “Something wrong, old boy?” the Counsellor enquired genially from the doorway. “Yank rub you up the wrong way, did he? They seem to want to run the world single-handed these days.”

  “I’ll need six-hour options,” Jerry said. The Counsellor didn’t quite follow. Having explained to him how they worked, Jerry stepped quickly into the night.

  “Got transport, have you, old boy? That’s the way. They’ll shoot you, otherwise. Mind how you go.”

  He strode quickly, driven by his irritation and disgust. It was long after curfew. There were no streetlamps, no stars. The moon had vanished, and the squeak of his crêpe soles ran with him like an unwanted companion. The only light came from the perimeter of the palace across the road, but none spilled onto Jerry’s side of the street. High walls blocked off the inner building, high wires crowned the walls, and barrels of the light anti-aircraft guns gleamed bronze against the black and soundless sky. Young soldiers dozed in groups and as Jerry strode past them a fresh roll of gong-beats sounded: the master of the guard was keeping the sentries awake. There was no traffic, but between the sentry posts the refugees had made up their own night villages in a long column down the pavement. Some had draped themselves with strips of brown tarpaulin, some had plank bunks, and some were cooking by tiny flames, though God alone knew what they had found to eat. Some sat in neat social groups, facing in upon each other. On an ox-cart a girl lay with a boy, children Cat’s age when he last had seen her in the flesh. But from the hundreds of them not one sound came, and after he had gone a distance he actually turned and peered to make sure they were there. If they were, the darkness and the silence hid them. He thought of the dinner party. It had taken place in another land, another universe entirely. He was irrelevant here, yet somehow he had contributed to the disaster.

  For no reason that he knew of, the sweat began running off him and the night air made no cooling impact. The dark was as hot as the day. Ahead of him in the town a stray rocket struck carelessly. They creep into the paddies until they’re within range, he thought. They lie up, hugging their bits of drain-pipe and their little bomb, then fire and run like hell for the jungle. The palace was behind him. A battery fired a salvo and for a few seconds he was able to see his way by the flashes. The road was broad, a boulevard, and as best he could he kept to the crown. Occasionally he made out the gaps of the side-streets passing him in geometric regularity. If he stooped, he could even see the tree-tops retreating into the paler sky. Once a cyclo pattered by, toppling nervously out of the turning, hitting the curb, then steadying. He thought of shouting to it but he preferred to keep on striding.

  A male voice greeted him doubtfully out of the darkness—a whisper, nothing indiscreet: “Bon soir? Monsieur? Bon soir?”

  The sentries stood every hundred metres in ones or twos, holding their carbines in both hands. Their murmurs came to him like invitations, but Jerry was always careful and kept his hands wide of his pockets where they could watch them. Some, seeing the enormous sweating round-eye, laughed and waved him on. Others stopped him at pistol point and gazed up at him earnestly by the light of bicycle lamps while they asked him questions in order to practise their French. Some requested cigarettes and these he gave. He tugged off his drenched jacket and opened his shirt to the waist, but still the air wouldn’t cool him and he wondered again whether he had a fever and whether, like last night in Bangkok, he would wake up in his bedroom crouching in the darkness waiting to brain someone with a table-lamp.

  The moon appeared, lapped by the foam of the rain clouds. By its light his hotel resembled a locked fortress. He reached the garden wall and followed it leftwards along the trees until it turned again. He threw his jacket over the wall and with difficulty climbed after it. He crossed the lawn to the steps, pushed open the door to the lobby, and stepped back with a surge of disgust. The lobby was in pitch blackness except for a single moonbeam, which shone like a spotlight on a huge luminous chrysalis spun around the naked brown larva of a human body.

  It was the night watchman in his hammock, asleep under a mosquito net.

  “Vous désirez, Monsieur?” a voice asked softly.

  The boy handed him a key and a note, and silently accepted his tip. Jerry struck his lighter and read the note: “Darling, I’m in room 28 and lonely. Come and see me. L.”

  What the hell? he thought; maybe it’ll put the bits back together again. He climbed the st
airs to the second floor, forgetting her terrible banality, thinking only of her long legs and her tilting rump as she negotiated the ruts along the river-bank; her cornflower eyes and her regular all-American gravity as she lay in the leopard spot; thinking only of his own yearning for human touch. Who gives a damn about Keller? he thought. To hold someone is to exist. Perhaps she’s frightened too. He knocked on the door, waited, gave it a shove.

  “Lorraine? It’s me. Westerby.”

  Nothing happened. He lurched toward the bed, conscious of the absence of any female smell, even face powder or deodorant. On his way there he saw by the same moonlight the dreadfully familiar sight of blue jeans, heavy bean-boots, and a tattered Olivetti portable not unlike his own.

  “Come one step nearer and it’s statutory rape,” said Luke, uncapping the whisky bottle on his bedside table.

  16

  FRIENDS OF CHARLIE MARSHALL

  He crept out before light, having slept on Luke’s floor. He took his typewriter and shoulder-bag, though he expected to use neither. He left a note for Keller asking him to wire Stubbs that he was following the siege story out to the provinces. His back ached from the floor and his head from the bottle.

  Luke had come for the bang-bangs, he said; bureau was giving him a rest from Big Moo. Also Jake Chiu, his irate landlord, had finally thrown him out of his apartment.

  “I’m destitute, Westerby!” he had cried, and began wailing round the room, “Destitute,” till Jerry, to buy himself some sleep and stop the neighbour’s banging, slipped his spare flat-key off its ring and flung it at him.

  “Until I get back,” he warned. “Then out. Understood?”

  Jerry asked about the Frost thing. Luke had forgotten all about it and had to be reminded. Ah, him, he said. Him. Yeah, well there were stories he’d been cheeky to the triads and maybe in a hundred years they would all come true, but meanwhile who gave a damn?

  But sleep hadn’t come so easy even then. They discussed today’s arrangements. Luke had proposed to do whatever Jerry was doing. Dying alone was a bore, he had insisted. Better they got drunk and found some whores. Jerry had replied that Luke would have to wait awhile before the two of them went into the sunset together, because he was going fishing for the day and he was going alone.

  “Fishing for what, for hell’s sakes? If there’s a story, share it. Where can you go that is not more beautiful for Brother Lukie’s presence?”

  Pretty well anywhere, Jerry had said unkindly, and managed to leave without waking him.

  He made first for the market and sipped a soupe chinoise, studying the stalls and shop fronts. He selected a young Indian who was offering nothing but plastic buckets, water-bottles, and brooms, yet looking very prosperous on the profits.

  “What else do you sell, sport?”

  “Sir, I sell all things to all gentlemen.”

  They foxed around. No, said Jerry, it was nothing to smoke that he wanted, and nothing to swallow, nothing to sniff and nothing for the wrists, either. And no, thank you, with all respect to the many beautiful sisters, cousins, and young men of his circle, Jerry’s other needs were also taken care of.

  “Then, oh, gladness, sir, you are a most happy man.”

  “I was really looking for something for a friend,” said Jerry.

  The Indian boy looked sharply up and down the street and he wasn’t foxing any more. “A friendly friend, sir?”

  “Not very.”

  They shared a cyclo. The Indian had an uncle who sold Buddhas in the silver market, and the uncle had a back room with locks and bolts on the door. For thirty American dollars Jerry bought a neat brown Walther automatic with twenty rounds of ammunition. The Sarratt bearleaders, he reckoned as he climbed back into the cyclo, would have fallen into a deep swoon. First for what they called improper dressing, a crime of crimes. Second because they preached the hardy nonsense that small guns gave more trouble than use. But they’d have had a bigger fit still if he’d carted his Hong Kong Webley through customs to Bangkok and thence to Phnom Penh, so in Jerry’s view they could count themselves lucky, because he wasn’t walking into this one naked whatever their doctrine of the week.

  At the airport there was no plane to Battambang, but there was never a plane to anywhere. There were the silver rice jets howling on and off the landing-strip, and there were new revêtements being built after a fresh fall of rockets in the night. Jerry watched the earth arriving in lorry-loads, and the coolies filling ammunition boxes frantically. In another life, he decided, I’ll go into the sand business and flog it to besieged cities.

  In the waiting-room Jerry found a group of stewardesses drinking coffee and laughing, and in his breezy way he joined them. A tall girl who spoke English made a doubtful face and disappeared with his passport and five dollars.

  “C’est impossible,” they all assured him while they waited for her. “C’est tout occupé.”

  The girl returned smiling. “The pilot is very susceptible,” she said. “If he don’t like you, he don’t take you. But I show him your photograph and he has agreed to surcharger. He is allowed to take only thirty-one personnes but he take you, he don’t care, he do it for friendship if you give him one thousand five hundred riels.”

  The plane was two-thirds empty, and the bullet-holes in the wings wept dew like undressed wounds.

  At that time, Battambang was the safest town left in Lon Nol’s dwindling archipelago, and Phnom Penh’s last farm. For an hour they lumbered over supposedly Khmer Rouge-infested territory without a soul in sight. As they circled, someone shot lazily from the paddies and the pilot pulled a couple of token turns to avoid being hit, but Jerry was more concerned to mark the ground layout before they landed: the park-bays; which runways were civil and which were military; the wired-off enclave which contained the freight huts. They landed in an air of pastoral affluence. Flowers grew round the gun emplacements, fat brown chickens scurried in the shell-holes, water and electricity abounded, though a telegram to Phnom Penh already took a week.

  Jerry trod very carefully now. His instinct for cover was stronger than ever. The Honourable Gerald Westerby, the distinguished hack, reports on the siege economy. When you’re my size, sport, you have to have a hell of a good reason for whatever you’re doing. So he put out smoke, as the jargon goes.

  At the enquiry desk, watched by several quiet men, he asked for the names of the best hotels in town and wrote down a couple while he continued to study the groupings of planes and buildings. Meandering from one office to another, he asked what facilities existed to air-freight news copy to Phnom Penh and no one had the least idea. Continuing his discreet reconnaissance, he waved his cable card around and enquired how to get to the governor’s palace, implying that he might have business with the great man personally. By now he was the most distinguished reporter who had ever been to Battambang. Meanwhile he noted the doors marked “Crew” and the doors marked “Private,” and the position of the men’s rooms, so that later, when he was clear, he could make himself a sketch plan of the entire concourse, with emphasis on the exits to the wired-off part of the airfield.

  Finally he asked who was in town just now among the pilots. He was friendly with several, he said, so his simplest plan— should it become necessary—was probably to ask one of them to take his copy in his flight-bag. A stewardess gave names from a list, and while she did this Jerry gently turned the list round and read off the rest. The Indocharter flight was listed but no pilot was mentioned.

  “Captain Andreas still flying for Indocharter?” he enquired.

  “Le capitaine qui, Monsieur?”

  “Andreas. We used to call him André. Little fellow, always wore dark glasses. Did the Kampong Cham run.”

  She shook her head. Only Captain Marshall and Captain Ricardo, she said, flew for Indocharter, but Captain Ric had immolated himself in an accident. Jerry affected no interest but established in passing that Captain Marshall’s Carvair was due to take off in the afternoon, as forecast in last night’s sig
nal, but there was no freight space available; everything was taken, Indocharter was always fully contracted.

  “Know where I can reach him?”

  “Captain Marshall never flies in the mornings, Monsieur.”

  He took a cab into town. The best hotel was a flea-bitten dug-out in the main street. The street itself was narrow, stinking, and deafening: an Asian boom town in the making, pounded by the din of Hondas and crammed with the frustrated Mercedes of the quick rich. Keeping his cover going, he took a room and paid for it in advance, to include service spécial, which meant nothing more exotic than clean sheets as opposed to those which still bore the marks of other bodies. He told his driver to return in an hour. By force of habit he secured an inflated receipt. He showered, changed, and listened courteously while the houseboy showed him where to climb in after curfew; then he went out to find breakfast because it was still only nine in the morning.

  He carried his typewriter and shoulder-bag with him. He saw no other round-eyes. He saw basket-makers, skin-sellers, and fruit-sellers, and once again the inevitable bottles of stolen petrol laid along the pavement waiting for an attack to touch them off. In a mirror hung in a tree he watched a dentist extract teeth from a patient tied in a high chair, and he watched the redtipped tooth being solemnly added to the thread that displayed the day’s catch.

  All of these things Jerry recorded in his notebook, as became a zealous reporter of the social scene. And from a pavement café, as he consumed cold beer and fresh fish, he watched the dingy halfglazed offices marked “Indocharter” across the road and waited for someone to come and unlock the door. No one did. Captain Marshall never flies in the mornings, Monsieur.

  At a chemist’s shop that specialised in children’s bicycles, he bought a roll of sticking-plaster and back in his room taped the Walther to his ribs rather than have it waving around in his waistband. Thus equipped, the intrepid journalist set forth to live some more cover, which sometimes, in the psychology of a fieldman, is no more than a gratuitous act of self-legitimisation as the heat begins to gather.