In this story, Emmanuel Gorlier ponders the fate of the Nyctalope’s most trusted friend and advisor, the Japanese diplomat Gno Mitang during World War II and how a good man faces the moral challenge of being on the losing side…
Emmanuel Gorlier: Twilight
The road was slightly lit by the weak headlamps. Gno Mitang and his chauffeur sat in darkness inside the car. Gno was lost in his thoughts.
They say that the American planes are able to strike at the heart of the Empire now. In a few hours we’ll be in Tokyo... All is not lost, we might be able to strike back. For three years now, we’ve gone from defeat to defeat. I was forced to leave France and my friend Leo to personally take charge of the Emperor’s Privy Council. If only I’d stayed in Japan! What an awful idea my successors had while I was gone to attack the United States! And since my return I’ve had to manage everything. Saving time! Hoping for the situation to turn around! I really think this is our last hope. If the project doesn’t succeed, the only thing we’ll have left is dying with honor, like our ancestors.
Just then, his thoughts were interrupted. The chauffeur had turned around and was speaking to him:
“Your Excellency; should we stop at the Imperial Palace or do you want to go directly to the factory?”
“The factory,” responded Gno without hesitation. “There’s not much time.”
The large military vehicle was already crossing the outskirts of the capital. If it had been daylight, Gno could have seen endless neighborhoods where there were hardly any adult males; the wooden houses now held only the sounds of children, the elderly and women talking about their daily chores...
If only a quick victory could return everything to normal, thought Gno. He wondered if he had been wrong to have supported those who believed that Japan should spread its influence to the mainland. But as his French friends said, "once the wine is poured, you might as well drink it.
Ahead of them, after a cleared area, were the three strands of barbed wire that protected the factory’s perimeter. The chauffeur stopped the car at the sentry booth and a guard approached and asked to see their papers before allowing them to pass through the barrier. The driver handed over the documents and said:
“His Excellency Gno Mitang is in a hurry.”
The guard saluted smartly and quickly opened the gate.
The vehicle entered and parked in front of the entrance of a large, four-story high wooden building. Gno went inside, walked down a corridor and opened the door to a laboratory that took up almost the entire square footage of the building, as well as its entire height.
In the center, supported by straps, was an enormous creature. Describing it wasn’t easy; it resembled a sort of stone-colored tyrannosaur. It was lying down, otherwise it wouldn’t have fit inside the room, as its size was far greater than the dinosaurs which had once walked the Earth.
Gno approached a scientist in a white coat who bowed to him and said:
“Your Excellency, we have not been able to find the energy necessary to awaken Godzilla from his thousands of years’ long sleep. But I believe there is hope. I have just heard from one of owe European contacts that the work of an Italian physicist is showing promise.”
“And where is this Italian scientist?” asked Gno.
“I believe he has emigrated to the United States to escape the Fascists.”
“Too bad. He must have made even more progress since the work you’ve heard about. We need to do something quickly; we’re losing the war and the only reason that I am even considering using this ancient horror that we’re not even sure we can control, it’s because I really don’t think we have any other choice.
“I’m going to let the Emperor know where we stand tomorrow. Don’t fail me!”
Gno was preoccupied as he left the laboratory. He got back into his car and told the driver to head to the Imperial Palace.
The Emperor was still awake and he requested an audience. Gno had had a trusted relationship with Emperor Hirohito for many years that allowed him to see him easily; a very rare privilege. Hirohito, who normally wasn’t particularly involved in day to day matters of State, had been attentively following the events that bothered more and more.
A chamberlain came to tell Gno that he was awaited, and as he walked towards the imperial office a deafening roar pierced the night. Air raid sirens began to scream.
Another American attack, he thought. And we are no longer able to stop them.
He entered the Emperor’s office and was bowing deeply when the first bombs were heard exploding in the distance. The Emperor stood and went to the window. Part of the city was already engulfed in flames as the incendiary bombs continued to fall.
Gno stood next to him and, together, they silently watched for long minutes as the city was destroyed by fire. The wooden buildings were burned almost instantly. At one point, the intensity was so great that an unstoppable firestorm was created.
The minutes became hours. Their faces were fixed into masks of horror as they watched the autodafé of the capital city. As the light of dawn broke over the devastation, where some flames still burned here and there, the Emperor broke his silence:
“I must leave the palace and share the pain of my people!”
Several hours later, Gno was at the calcified ruins of the factory. The scientist, his white coat covered soot, approached him and said:
“We took refuge in no man’s land and we all survived. Unfortunately, the factory was completely destroyed; only Godzilla made it. He’ll truly be an unstoppable weapon!”
“We need to give up. It’s too late. When the Emperor returned to the palace after visiting what’s left of Tokyo, his face in disbelief and shock, his eyes had a look of determination that has been missing for months. I doubt that the conflict will go on for much longer. Have Godzilla thrown into the ocean. We need to spare our children the potential risk. We’ve made enough mistakes.
“But maybe we can find the energy source that we need quickly...?”
Gno Mitang remained silent. He looked around at the razed Tokyo and thought of the thousands of deaths that had occurred during the night; women, children, the elderly... He answered in a grave voice:
“I have the feeling that when that energy is discovered, Japan will no longer be the same. If the Emperor wants it, we will be better off concerning ourselves with rebuilding her, than with continuing to battle for imaginary results.”
Roman Leary has made it his mission to chronicle the Nyctalope’s post-World War II adventures, concentrating on the moral rebirth of the character, and exploring the theme of his immortality. In this story, which takes place soon after The Children of Heracles, he throws a new light on the events chronicled by La Hire in Enter the Nyctalope…
Roman Leary: A Moment of Perfect Happiness
Saigon 1951
Dear Jenny,
I am so glad that you enjoyed my last letter. You have no idea how flattering it is for an old guy like me to get praise from such a bright and beautiful young lady. Of course, it could be argued that you’re biased, being my grand-daughter and all, but I’m going to take it at face-value and assume you mean every word of it.
The pictures that you sent are very, very good. I have to admit, you’ve succeeded in changing my mind about digital photography. I may be a stubborn geezer when it comes to computers and e-mail, but I’m not so much of a Luddite that I can’t recognize a great innovation when I see it. Just don’t let yourself become so reliant on the technology that you start letting it do the work for you. Remember, you can buy a million dollars’ worth of paint and brushes, but that won’t make you Rembrandt. Talent, patience, and practice make an artist. You’ve got plenty of the first. Stick to the other two and it won’t be long before I’m not the only Kovac with a Pulitzer.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the question you asked me, about whether or not I had a favorite picture. My gut response was to name the old prize-winner, but the plain fact is that I’ve never liked that image.
Can you believe it? Oh, it’s a great photograph all right, but you know it was taken just a few hours before my Pop died. I can never look at it without thinking I should have been in New York with him, instead of adventuring on the other side of the world. That’s why I never look at it at all.
Then, of course, there’s the old line about how it’s like asking which of your kids you like the most. You know, they’re all my favorites ha-ha. But that’s just a lazy cop-out and you deserve better than that.
So, I went in the attic, got out the archives and started going through them one by one. I’ve got to say, a lot of my stuff was pretty good, better even than I remembered. It was nice to come back to it with a little distance, a little detachment, and see that it really is a nice body of work. Maybe I should do a show at the local library.
Anyway, Get to the point Grandpa, I hear you saying, so I will. I was in the third box when I found it. As soon as I saw it, I said to myself, Mike, this is it.
Just to be sure, I went through all the others, but that was the one I kept coming back to. That was the one, no question.
Well, there’s a copy of it with this letter. What do you think?
I won’t be surprised if you’re not too impressed. I suppose there are others which are more dramatic, more fraught with meaning. But remember your question: You didn’t ask what my best picture was, you asked which one was my favorite, and now you’re looking at it. Let me tell you why…
Dr. Adrien de Villiers-Pagan, the immortal, admired the women as they strolled down the Rue Catinat. He had come to believe that Vietnamese women were the most beautiful in the world, and he gazed upon them with an appreciation that bordered on reverence.
He was sitting at a table beside a milk bar, savoring a chocolate malt which, by some miracle, remained cool in the glass despite the sultry Saigon heat. Occasionally, a familiar face would walk by—a French soldier or a child he had helped at the clinic—and there would be a wave or a nod of acknowledgement. He enjoyed these brief moments of familiarity. They were friendly reminders that he was still a participant in the human experience, even if, strictly speaking, he was no longer fully human.
He was taking a final, noisy sip at the straw when he noticed the man staring at him. He was a tall man, lean and muscular in his tan summer suit. He stood apart, still as a stone in the drift of humanity along the crowded street. At first, the doctor wasn’t completely certain he was object of the fellow’s gaze. The man was wearing sunglasses, and his blank expression could have betokened merely a preoccupied mind rather than ominous scrutiny. Then the man began to walk toward him.
Villiers-Pagan felt uneasy at the man’s implacable approach, but he was also curious. There was something familiar about the man, something about the way he moved…
The doctor smiled. Of course, he thought. He was bound to seek me out eventually. I’m actually surprised it took this long.
He stood up to greet the man as he drew near. “I’m so glad to see you,” he said. He gestured to the chair opposite his own.
The man seemed slightly taken aback. “Do you recognize me so easily, after all this time?”
“Oh, the beard and the glasses are fine distractions,” the doctor said. “But I literally know you inside-out. Won’t you please join me? I will buy you a chocolate malt.”
A hint of a smile crossed the tall man’s features. “I think I would prefer something with a little more bite.”
Villiers-Pagan laughed. “Come now, old friend,” he said. “It is early yet. I promise you will be refreshed by this treat. Me, I can’t imagine a morning without it.”
The man sat down with a sigh. “Very well,” he said. “I must say, your tastes have changed since we last met.”
“A great many things have changed, few for the better.”
“This is true for me as well,” the tall man said. He removed his glasses, revealing striking greenish-brown eyes of an almost metallic hue. “I suppose you are aware of the turn my life has taken.”
“I am,” said the doctor.
“Then we won’t have to waste time talking about me. You, on the other hand…”
“I suppose you have a great many questions.”
“Indeed I do,” said Leo Saint-Clair, once better known as the Nyctalope. “For example, how is it that I am carrying on such a pleasant conversation with a man who has been dead for nearly fifty years?”
To a kid like you, Vietnam is probably synonymous with movies like Rambo and Platoon. Well, I actually spent a lot of time there in the early fifties, and I can tell you that there’s a lot more to the place than jungles and rice paddies.
In those days it was the French, not us, that were caught up in a war that had turned into a seemingly endless slog through the muck. I went over there with the intention of staying a couple of weeks at the most, but that turned into a couple of months. If you wanted blood and hell, there was plenty to photograph out in the bush, but Saigon, that was another story. The place was…addictive. To me, Saigon in ‘51 was like being lost in a strange and pleasant fever dream while a storm rages outside. You can hear the thunder, and you see the lightning from the corner of your eye, but the beauty and the heat keep pulling you down into sleep. You just want to the dream to last as long as possible.
I never lacked for company, that’s for sure. There were plenty of Brits and Americans over there to pass the time with, not to mention lots of pretty ladies. Don’t worry, I won’t tell you anything embarrassing, but you should remember that your Grandpa wasn’t always a wrinkly old coot.
Anyway, there was this one reporter that I occasionally shared drinks with named Thomas Fowler. He worked for a London paper, the Times maybe. He was kind of a jerk, to tell the truth. One of those cynical Limey snobs who thinks you’re too dumb to know when he’s being ironic. That being said, he was smart as hell and I enjoyed his conversation, as long as it was in small doses.
This Fowler, he had a connection with a young American named Pyle. I can’t really remember his first name, something like Aldo. I only met him once or twice. He was a quiet guy, earnest to the point of being laughable. Incredibly, it was an open secret all over Saigon that Pyle was involved in some kind of espionage. Nobody knew exactly, precisely what he was up to, but it was something. I remember one of the few times I talked to him, he wouldn’t shut up about how Vietnam needed a “Third Force” to come in and set things right. He might have been talking about the U.S., or maybe he meant himself. Who knows? He seemed like a nice enough guy, but of the two I preferred Fowler…
“…And that’s how I made everyone believe I had drowned in the ocean.”
Leo slowly shook his head. “A remarkable story,” he said. “The people who call me ruthless should spend some time with you. Didn’t you think about what this would do to your family?”
“I thought about them a great deal,” said Villiers-Pagan. “I have never stopped thinking about them. I never will.”
“And yet you are here, hiding under an assumed identity…”
“Not making a very good job of it, apparently. How did you find me?”
Leo reached into his breast pocket and produced a folded piece of paper that he passed over the table. The doctor opened it to see a clipping from a magazine, possibly Life. On the page was a picture of a smiling nun watching over a group of Vietnamese children at play. In the background, looking on in bemusement was himself, the very image of a benevolent physician.
The doctor laughed. “Incredible,” he said. “One can barely make out my features in these shadows. How could you be so sure it was me?”
“I am not likely to forget the man who saved my life. I was assisted considerably by the fact that, to all appearances, you haven’t aged a day since the last time I saw you.”
“Yes, that is remarkable, isn’t it?”
“Very.”
Silence fell between them. The sounds of the street—chattering voices, bicycle bells, buzzing engines—merged almost into a melody. The doctor closed h
is eyes and listened to it for a moment. In the distance, there was a percussive crack that may have been a simple backfire, or a grenade.
“You have told me how you came to be here,” Leo said, “but not why.”
Villiers-Pagan smiled. “If I simply say, that is none of your business, my good fellow, will you accept that as an answer? Will you move on to another subject? Perhaps even no longer be here when I open my eyes?”
“I am afraid not.”
The doctor sighed.
“Please look at me,” Leo said. “I am not here to do you an ill turn, but I have come very far to find you, and I will not leave until you have told me what I wish to know.”
“Why are you so adamant?” Villiers-Pagan asked, asperity creeping into his tone. “You of all people should know that some things are better left alone.”
Leo shrugged. “Call it the habit of a lifetime,” he said. “I was once a detective as well as a warrior. I suppose I’m simply no good at leaving a puzzle unsolved.”
“I do not think you will like what you hear.”
“I seldom do.”
The doctor nodded. “So be it,” he said. “If anyone has a right to know, it is certainly you. It began the night of your operation, the night that I placed in your chest a heart made of plastic and steel…”
One morning, out of the blue, I got a call from Pyle. I was surprised to hear from him, but I didn’t want to ask him point blank what he wanted because I figured that would be rude. So I let him waste time talking to me about a girl he was in love with named Phuong. “It means phoenix,” I remember him saying. “Isn’t that beautiful?”
I told him it was absolutely gorgeous and that I’d be glad to take pictures of his wedding, if he would meet my price.
The Nyctalope Steps In Page 25
