by Kim Ekemar
It’s true that Jake never stops eating as soon as we return from a mission. I suppose everybody has his own way to soothe his nerves, and Jake’s is to smother them with greasy food. He’ll be 21 next Tuesday, he told me later, and he never wanted to come here to die in the first place. Now he’s counting the days he has to stay alive before he’s shipped back to the States. For one who professes so eagerly that he wants to survive, Jake sure doesn’t make it easy on himself.
February 5, 1973
The wind is finally letting up now, and I accompanied Dan down to the port. This is such a small place! Everybody knows one another. I met Dan’s boss again, Mr. Rawlins, and man was he in a bad mood today. He shot off his artillery and didn’t stop until he had made mincemeat of the bewildered Dan. Rawlins was upset about some recent gathering where he and his wife had been abandoned by everybody else and had been forced to pick up the leftovers on their own. In his usual indignant manner, Dan stammered that he couldn’t recall that he had been present on the occasion.
Rawlins didn’t give him the privilege of an excuse, so he just barked another round or two a little louder, then turned on his heels and left the battlefield. I could observe how Dan was trying to assimilate the nasty experience, in particular since he suddenly realized I had been witness to also this one. Finally, he said he would invite me to the best ice cream in the world and I followed him to the quaintly named Harbor Grand Café where we both ordered a huge banana split.
February 6, 1973
It troubles me how to proceed with my new manuscript. I don’t want to let JP down, yet I begin to feel that my very ‘avant-garde’ method of writing a book without a clear idea how it should end won’t do anymore. You can write about ongoing wars that way, they might even benefit from doing so, but a book about Desires vs. Evil can’t be done this way. I feel I’m going to let JP down.
I’m slowing down on my script for the third chapter and I know JP expects my work to be constant. I don’t know, I just can’t concentrate on writing my novel while all these uncertainties are swirling around inside my head. What does Inocencia want? Why is her behavior suddenly a little different now that Dan announced he has to go away? I don’t like any of it.
February 7, 1973
It has been snowing heavily again since yesterday, leaving a carpet of snow at least two feet thick on the ground. Everyone continually expresses his or her amazement over the fact and superfluously observes it is certainly out of the ordinary.
At JP’s recommendation I looked up the seven deadly sins in Dan’s encyclopaedia. JP’s right as usual. I can draw on them to simplify – or perhaps the word is 'symbolize' – the complexities that Corey is up against. As I copied the entries I began to fantasize who in my surroundings would fit into the description of each.
There is no doubt that Brett Moorefield is the perfect living illustration for Gluttony, with the way he gobbles up food and disgustingly waves his fat hands to override everybody else in a conversation. Xavier is Pride and haughtiness incorporated. He is vain and superior, and he even walks with a strut as if his person is the most admirable alive. I guess his friend Vicente matches the role of Lust with his knack of undressing Inocencia with his eyes the moment Xavier looks away. Come to think of it he has also made passes at Lorena. This can only confirm my impression of Vicente as lewd, since a less desirable female would certainly be hard to find. And Lorena, well, Lorena is the model of Sloth and indifference – no bones about it!
The others were a bit harder to cast. Dan’s stubble-headed energetic and red-faced boss, Mr. Rawlins, is no doubt a choleric man that fits the description of a wrathful person. The two or three times I’ve met him he has always shouted down Dan’s throat and ignored my presence. His bristling eyebrows and compact body helps, too, to give Wrath a physical identity. He looks like a smith ready to furiously hammer away on his anvil to get the anger out of his system. I need to meet him again, though, and study him more.
Everybody has been so generous, really, with things or themselves that it has been difficult to think who to cast as Greed. Then I came to think of Mr. Pringle, the banker, and his nasty drooling over my potential capital. The way he had a hard time looking into my eyes while doing his number strengthened that uneasy feeling you get when someone likes you only for your money. Yes, I think he is a good example of a narrow-minded character with covetousness as his foremost reason for existence. I’ll go down to the bank again and feed him the prospect that I’m tempted to transfer my non-existent fortune into his care. I want to watch his reactions more closely and add them to my concept.
Well, a lot can be said for the people in Harbor, but I wouldn’t describe them as envious. It was close to midday by now. I was sitting in Dan’s study jotting down ideas and notes when the doorbell rang. I heard Inocencia rush to the door in the perfect knowledge that Lorena, comfortably cuddled up in front of the TV set, wouldn’t lift a finger – or anything else out of the easy chair for that matter – to answer the call. It was Mr. Lockwood who brought us the mail. I overheard him profusely insisting that Inocencia should forgive him for being later than usual, but all the overnight snow had slowed him down a great deal. Inocencia only laughed deliciously and told him he shouldn’t worry; wouldn’t he please step inside for a hot cup of cocoa? Which Mr. Lockwood graciously accepted as he always did. I heard Inocencia run out into the kitchen. A hunch told me to personally collect my mail from Mr. Lockwood.
He was standing in the hallway with snow covering most of his blue winter uniform. The warmth of the house caused the snow to melt and small puddles had begun to form on the stone floor. He hadn’t bothered to get the mail out yet and retained a blank look on his face when I reminded him. When he finally grasped what I wanted, he reluctantly brought out three letters from his soggy leather bag. One was for me – from JP of course. Nobody else is writing me here in Harbor. I observed he also brought a kind of official-looking manila envelope destined to Dan. The last one carried exotic stamps and was addressed to Inocencia.
Lockwood watched the interior of the house with his mouth slightly open. When he saw that I had caught him studying the affluent details of the McPherson household, he actually blushed slightly, and in that precise moment Inocencia called out from the kitchen that his hot chocolate was ready. I don’t trust him. He keeps looking as if he wants to heist the place for the pickings. He has flickering stake-out eyes if I ever saw any. They go all over the place and in red and yellow neon flashes they transmit ‘I wish this was mine’.
When Inocencia returned bringing his chocolate his face lit up. Lockwood started slavering his compliments while stealthily flickering his glances between the woman and her handsome home. He sipped on his cocoa as Inocencia kept talking about this and that. As usual she remained beautiful, carefree and unaware of the rapist concealed in her pockmarked mailman’s eyes.
What a prime specimen for Envy!
February 8, 1973
I got quite inspired by the idea of using seven men to each represent a deadly sin. It got me thinking even more about the roles and characters of the three marooned people seeking shelter aboard the ship. To me it’s obvious my subconscious has been busy contemplating this all night, because I woke up at four in the morning suddenly knowing exactly who they were – purity, simplicity and cowardice! What will come out of this?! I have been writing furiously the whole day, more enthusiastic about my craft than I have been for years. I’m quite pleased with the result and can’t wait to hear JP’s opinion.
Letter from PBC to JP dated February 9, 1973
Dear JP,
I send you the final draft for the third chapter of my latest, together with the revised version of the second. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to provide you with the synopsis you keep pestering me about, but the book I’m writing is coming together on its own. It seems to have its proper life, and I have merely been chosen to be the instrument to put it on paper. Although the going is painfully slow, sometimes I feel greatly stimulat
ed by the way the chapters are shaping the beginning of the narrative. When I turn to a new blank page it is for me to turn a corner with no inkling of what is going to happen. Yet I know it will be increasingly more interesting. Isn’t that how life is supposed to be? Full of expectancy, I mean.
The scene now ending Chapter Two, when the door suddenly opens, is something I have a clear memory of from my Viet Nam days. I think I mentioned it in Velvet Nights, but I’m not sure. Anyway it sticks out in my mind as a metaphor for choice – ‘do you want in or do you stay out?’ I rewrote it twice until I think I got it right.
As always I’d like to hear your comments on my latest effort, but please – be more specific, more elaborate. You know how I appreciate it when you take the time. Especially since you seem to live in a constant rush hour.
Bye, Paul
Excerpt from Velvet Nights, Chapter VII
How Leslie Carter could have made it through the Virginia Military Institute is a mystery to everybody. A man less suited to be an officer is hard to find. Last night I was summoned by Captain Moore and told to look for Carter. Moore and Carter are old school buddies, and I think that’s the reason why he preferred me to find Carter instead of calling on the MPs.
I found him in one of the hundred nameless back streets in one of Saigon’s many shantytowns. This was a red-light district, an understatement if there ever was one – the color was closer to deep scarlet. The girls were jabbering away offering themselves for a few coins as long as these were made in America; black marketers nestled up against me to make shady deals to last me a lifetime; pushers offered me grass, pills and to show me the way to a free pipe in an opium den; whatever. Every kind of hustler known on the face of the earth was represented.
I finally located Carter in an opium parlor. I was led there by a nervously giggling man of my own age who thought I wanted to join my compatriot for a nightcap pipe. The door was barred. I banged on it until I thought it would fall apart. All the time I was surrounded by these Viet Namese hustlers screeching and shouting and laughing and nudging themselves over my futile efforts. It was dark by now and I wanted to get out of there. One final attempt, then suddenly the door was unbarred and this huge shadow filled the doorway – a languid, uncaring, unconcerned shape in the soft backlight that unconsciously transmitted his very body language.
It was Carter all right, so hazed with opium the smoke seemed to trickle out of his ears.
Letter from JP to PBC dated February 15, 1973
Dear Paul,
Your glib remark about my life in the crossroads with green lights flashing from all directions certainly hit its mark! I’m sorry I always seem to rush off notes of observations to you rather than extensive letters based on dialogue – I promise I intend to do better in the future. I have to, really, not only because of you but also for my own sense of well-being. I do seem to move around in a constant rush hour as you put it. Bosses scream at me, the new financial wizards want magic bottom lines, authors that I have taken care of for years suddenly demand more attention than a newly born baby. All this while an amazing number of agents fight me over the phone, loudly assuring me that their hordes of obviously talented writers should have the right to a public kowtow to their yet undiscovered genius. (Please note the use I make to distinguish author from writer.)
There’s no doubt whatsoever that you belong to the authors, Paul. Yet I have found you are not among those who need attention out of pure vanity like so many others. I assure you it’s refreshing to receive your letters – and that’s before I mention your chapters that are developing into a most confusingly mysterious yet thrilling story that is hard to determine where it is heading. If this wasn’t clear to me during the first or the second chapters you sent me of the work in progress, it is certainly more than obvious in the third. Suddenly I find myself in the envious position of being an expectant reader wanting more, instead of in the role of the harassed editor wanting less.
You ask me for suggestions. If there is one I would like to make based on what I have received, it is that you should confine this narrative to essentials. It is certainly hard to express my full opinion when I haven’t received a synopsis conveying the idea and where the story is going, yet I get the hunch reading what you have produced so far that you’re into something of considerable depth. I perceive that you’re writing about basic human instincts when confronted by harsh reality under extreme conditions. Like the fears that settle on us humans from time to time when we don’t have control.
A masterly trick, that opened door with an impassive shape lit from behind. If there is a way in, you have to push for it. Whatever is beyond that impersonal, unidentifiable shape it is certainly your choice if you decide to leave a known hardship for an unknown fate. It can be interpreted in so many ways, but no doubt a passive posture blocking the doorway can only be ominous.
Since I am very much aware of the moral questions set forth in your first book, may I now assume that you are going to dwell on the eternal questions? Perhaps this new opus will take on mythological proportions. Fire, water, air, earth? Dependency and cleansing. Sins and virtues? I notice that you have taken up my proposal to include the seven deadly sins. Surely you know that we humans have always tried to synthesize complex situations and nature into symbolic, connotative words or situations.
I have a presentiment – and a good one – that the work you are now finally beginning to develop is going to become a discourse on the synthesis of good and evil. It will explain many of your observations during the Viet Nam War, and it will shed light on the complex natures of men. Of course it will be so. I have great faith in your power to express these ideas in an original, modern way …
Yours, JP
The Ship: Chapter III
THE SHIP
An unshaven, unwashed man who wore his dirty hair shoulder-length appeared in front of us. His pale eyes stared disinterestedly. He was dressed in a torn T-shirt carrying Lyndon B. Johnson’s sweaty face above the legend What? Me worry?
Completely immobile, he studied us as if we were fish in an aquarium – and some strange species at that.
The first one to collect his wits was Irving.
“How fortunate that there was someone aboard! We were actually starting to have doubts after calling up to you and then standing here knocking a good while.” True to his nature, Irving chattered away without paying any attention to the reaction of his listener.
In this case his listener did not react at all. He just stood there filling out the doorway with his plump frame and generally shabby appearance. His right hand rested on the frame and his head on the back of the hand.
Irving was astonished by the man's aloofness. I was standing close enough to see Irving's light brown eyes darken under his creased eyebrows, and I immediately sensed that he could not control the situation.
“Our van broke down”, I interjected. “We didn't know what to do in this foul weather until we by coincidence saw a light shining on your ship.”
The wind made the man's greasy, dark blond hair flutter around his head. Clearly my words made at least some impression, because he shifted his gaze to me. He was a coarse man a few years short of forty, with black fingernails and unhealthy skin. It’s safe to say he was the kind of person that you normally would go out of your way to avoid.
The man’s physical appearance was not something that appalled Irving. Nothing could hold Irving back once he had developed an idea in his head. He continued as if nothing extraordinary was happening.
“Young man”, he said, using that voice of his that he willingly employed when he wanted to emphasize his presence and experience, “to make it short, we need to stay on board your ship for a couple of nights.”
Irving's most authoritative voice rang out among the whirling snowflakes with no effect whatsoever on the man in the door opening. The small gaps between his body and the doorframe let out light but did not permit us to peek inside. Silently he proceeded contemplating Oona.
Irving cleared his throat to prepare himself for another of his grand speeches. Before he was given the chance to begin a voice spoke from the cabin.
“Stuart! What do you think you're doing! Shut the door!”
Stuart lingered. Finally he turned around and, making no attempt obeying the order, sluggishly sauntered back into the cabin. With our view no longer blocked we had the opportunity to study the room and its occupants.
It was a large ship’s cabin, perhaps forty by twenty-five feet. At the end, exactly opposite the opening where we were standing, was a window, and next to it some stairs that led to another doorway. On the opposite side there was a space obviously designed for surveillance of the cabin. There were several men inside the main room, although strange as it may seem nobody made any display of interest in us newcomers. The chaos that ruled the room is hard to explain with mere words. A few chairs were standing around a couple of tables while the remaining lay overturned on the floor. Burnt matches, playing cards, dirty plates and kitchen knives were lying on the tables in a sticky mess of leftover food and spilled wine. The floor was crammed with litter, clothing, cleaned bones and more food scraps. In one corner stood a huge iron stove with glowing coals, in another three wine barrels had been piled.
Excluding Stuart there were six men in the cabin. Two of them were sitting by a table with an earthenware pitcher and food heaped on a large platter in front of them. Another man was standing between them, apprehensively watching what they were eating. By one longer wall a stocky, squat man stood, carving a piece of wood. A stooping man sat at an adjacent table nervously drumming his fingers against the tabletop.
