The Shadow of Arms

by Hwang Sok-Yong

  “Welcome, sir.”

  “Well, I was wondering if the payment has been completed?”

  The man removed some papers from a drawer in the desk.

  “Yes, sir. It’s all been paid.”

  The two men sat down on black leather chairs facing each other.

  “Madame was quite pleased, too. Our staff brought in some laborers and it only took us ten days to finish with all the repairs. This is the lease contract from the realtor, and these are miscellaneous receipts. Have a look for yourself, sir.”

  Pham Quyen quickly flipped through the papers handed to him.

  “Five hundred thousand piasters. Expensive.”

  “Expensive? Not really, sir. The American who was the previous tenant was paying twenty thousand per month. Even if he only stayed there ten months, that was still two hundred thousand down the drain, you see. But since your lease is on a key money basis, after six months you can move out whenever you want and recover the full deposit of five hundred thousand.”

  “All the furniture has been moved in?”

  “The place was already furnished. There’s a double bed, a dining table, chairs, living room set, a fancy chest, dresser, dish cabinet, and Madame has already purchased the electric appliances herself . . .”

  “Then the total was . . . ”

  “All together, the cost was two hundred fifty thousand piasters. Dirt cheap, sir. To tell you the truth, since it was for you, I didn’t have to charge for the work done by the staff. That was debited to your account.”

  Cuong, who acted as a dealer for the provincial government office, for practical purposes had been a kind of financial manager for General Liam’s interests in Da Nang. He had no choice under the circumstances except to assist Pham Quyen as well, since he was the primary agent for General Liam’s business operations. Pham Quyen had laid down a general rule regarding the business of the general and himself, a principle of two shares to one: After every two transactions for General Liam, the third one was for himself. The scale of dealings was large enough that a mere division commander could become a millionaire within two or three years on the front lines, so from General Liam’s perspective, as governor and military commander who had a hand in all the business in the province, there was plenty to go around and no reason to object to Pham Quyen’s cut.

  “The fertilizer will be flowing in continuously,” said Pham Quyen.

  “That’s good news, indeed. The more you supply the more they demand, that’s how it works with fertilizer, you know. No matter how much the supply grows, our margin will be one hundred percent of the original cost. For now it looks like the price of cement won’t be slipping, either. For the strongest demand in the short term rice is still best, though.”

  “No, not rice.”

  Pham Quyen replied with firm resolve. Cuong narrowed his eyes.

  “Why not? The police superintendent is even dealing in heroin from Vientiane. His dealers are right out there in the main alley.”

  “Listen, Mr. Cuong, I’m still the one who plans the business. With their base in the Mekong Delta, the influential men of Saigon are still holding exclusive rights for rice sales. For a long time we in Quang Nam Province have been buying rice from them.”

  “I’m talking about imported American rice, sir. It’s out there on the pier, right?”

  “That rice is to be shipped out to the villages to be used as wages and resettlement aid.”

  “You don’t get it, do you? You deduct and pay in piasters instead of in kind, sir. That way you can have half of the rice supply fall into your hands, sir.”

  Pham Quyen had been mulling over the idea for some time. But he did not want to exploit his access to the rice. It was a staple food and extremely sensitive, so why take the risk of being exposed to a stinking scandal for the slightest mismanagement. If anything like that happened, the general would have to take off his uniform before joining the cabinet, and for Pham, a single blunder of that magnitude would terminate all of his opportunities. Until the general returned to Saigon, he meant to cling tightly to the general’s coattails. Then, like so many other adjutants of generals and admirals, he might later step up into a dream job as a manager of foreign property somewhere like Bangkok, Hong Kong, Singapore, or Taipei.

  “What’s the price of cinnamon these days?” Pham asked.

  Cuong licked his lips. “Cinnamon, sir? Ah, that reminds me of the good old days. Your late father, sir, would know very well. Da Nang used to be renowned throughout Vietnam for the cinnamon trade. Ships from India and China swarmed in for cinnamon like bees to a flowerbed. Only four or five years back we still had decent cinnamon harvests. Nothing like in the time of Bao Dai, though, of course. And now . . . see for yourself, we only have what little the old women in the highlands peel and carry down to us, never anywhere near enough to meet demand. Truly, cinnamon is an item that brings to mind the old days of peace and quiet.”

  Befitting a Da Nang merchant, Cuong’s mumbling had acquired a touchingly nostalgic tone. Pham roused him from his reverie.

  “So, there are still cinnamon merchants?”

  Cuong instinctively lowered his voice.

  “Cinnamon and cloves are both highland products, so they are sometimes handled by traders with connections to the Liberation Front, I think. There’s one Indian merchant here, a money-changer, who buys up small lots of spices and ships them overseas.”

  Pham Quyen knew better than anyone where cinnamon was to be found. As a boy, he used to accompany his father when he went with his assistants to buy and they traveled days at a stretch through the highlands. The region was now up on the edge of the Second Division defense zone.

  “Negotiate with that Indian merchant to see how good a price you can come up with.”

  “What, what did you say?”

  “I’ll never touch rice trading. Instead, I’ll appoint you as the exclusive cinnamon dealer in Da Nang.”

  “Cinnamon these days? Where on earth can you get it, sir?”

  “From the upland jungles.”

  “No matter how good the price, nobody’s going to want to stick their necks out that far for it.”

  Pham Quyen chuckled.

  “There are many kinds of business for which people risk their lives. War, for instance, is such a business, don’t you think? I’ll order the soldiers to conduct a cinnamon gathering operation.”

  Cuong pounded the table. “Truly, you are your father’s son, sir. That’s something nobody else would have even had the sense to spot. It’s a business of an entirely different order than trading in military goods.”

  A stocky man in shorts and a T-shirt walked in and bowed to Cuong. “We finished the job, boss.”

  “Ummm, so you’re done with the moving and you’ve helped with the unpacking and arranging, too?”

  “Yes, I’ve just come from there, sir. Madame wishes for you to have dinner at home.”

  “Well done. Send the boys home and you can call it a day, too.”

  The man left and Cuong hurriedly washed his hands at the sink.

  “There’s something I’d like to show you, sir.”

  After sending the office girl home, Cuong turned off the air conditioner and locked every window before leaving the office. Pham Quyen trailed slowly behind. Cuong walked off in the direction opposite from the parking lot and headed into a narrow pathway, lined on both sides by small shops with bins of goods open beside the walkway. The goods for sale were no more than small bags of American cookies, a few canned goods and jars of instant coffee, but Pham Quyen knew that the owners of these shops were prosperous traders, each owning his own warehouse as big as seventy square yards.

  In the alleys of the old market there were hundreds of such small shops, while those down on the pier and in the new marketplace mainly handled necessities and luxury goods. But the merchants themselves could
not always say what sorts of business was being transacted in the labyrinth of the old market. Rumor had it that even a tank or a helicopter could be bought and sold disassembled, in pieces. Next to Saigon, Da Nang had the biggest market in the nation. There were products from all over the highlands, from Pleiku, Kon Tum, and Bien Hien, not to mention places like Quang Tri, Hue, Hoi An, Tam Ky, and the coastal towns of Quang Ngai. From the old days Da Nang and Haiphong had been major ports for the Mainland China trade, and under the Hue Dynasty they had greeted merchant ships from the Philippines and Malaysia.

  “That is my brother’s business.”

  Cuong pointed with his finger toward a cinder block structure at the end of one of the pathways. The signboard said it was an automobile service shop. Through the wide-open gate a storage space and an empty yard could be seen.

  “The land is mine and my brother owns a few vehicles.”

  Pham Quyen walked into the yard and looked around. They had come in through the back gate and the front door was on the far side of the yard. There were a couple of maintenance bays for vehicles, just a roof set on pillars with pits dug under the wheel rails. A place for washing cars had also been set up. There was one Renault sedan in the yard and a half dozen so-called box cars, which were improvised on the chassis of old American military Jeeps with crude bodies shaped like a box. Then Pham Quyen noticed another vehicle in a corner of the garage. Cuong chortled and followed him over to take a look.

  “I knew you’d notice it, sir. A Land Rover is as tough as a water buffalo. You can’t damage it even with a hammer. This one could speed all the way up Route 1 to Hanoi. It’s like brand new, sir, just arrived from Saigon a week ago. We bought it from some foreign consular official who was heading back home.”

  “Is it for sale?”

  “No . . . it was, but now it has an owner.”

  As the garrulous Cuong had said, the Land Rover looked as solid as an armored personnel carrier. The shiny khaki-colored paint was enough to make a sheik covet it for his personal war games. The thick canvas cloth covering the cab had a dappled green pattern like the British commando vehicles in Malaysia in the old days. A round hatch plate had been installed that could serve to anchor a machine gun turret.

  “Isn’t she a beauty?” someone said from behind them. Pham Quyen turned around to look. A long-haired man in a white shirt with a Chinese collar and black Vietnamese pants was smiling.

  “This is my younger brother, Thach,” Cuong said.

  The man bowed. He looked to be about the same age as Pham Quyen. Thach looked so good-natured when he smiled that he made a good first impression on almost everyone.

  “My brother graduated from college like you, sir,” Cuong proudly continued. “He lived in Hue for a long time.”

  Pham Quyen guessed he had solved the problem of the draft for about ten thousand dollars with his brother’s help and now was taking it easy. Pham Quyen shook his hand.

  “Too bad there’s no factory in Vietnam where he can work as a technician.”

  Thinking the man must work for a useless engineering facility, Pham Quyen opened the door on the Land Rover and looked inside.

  “Now that the car’s found an owner, it must be in good spirits, too,” Thach said. Pham Quyen looked back at the two brothers.

  “This car, whose is it?”

  “Yours, sir. You can drive it away right now.”

  Cuong urged Pham, pressing him on the back. Actually, from the moment he first set eyes on the car, Major Pham had been thinking how much the general would like it. He was well aware of the general’s vanity. His white silk scarves, the ivory baton wrapped with snakeskin, all of it from the Kalashnikov automatics down to the Czechoslovakian and Polish pistols reflected such tastes. The general despised the olive drab sedan he had been issued for its mundane lack of personality, and he preferred to ride in a new model Jeep with camouflage netting over it.

  Pham Quyen calmly asked, “When did I buy this car?”

  “It’s a gift, for free, sir. A souvenir in anticipation of future business together.”

  “But it must have cost a million piasters, no?”

  “Our deals already have surpassed twenty times that. By the end of the year it’ll be fifty times. And as you said earlier, we are to have the cinnamon monopoly, that alone will be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

  Cuong checked his watch.

  “It’s getting late. You should hurry home. We, too, need to close for the day.”

  “All right. I’ll have the office use this car.”

  Pham Quyen nonchalantly kicked the tires a few times, trying their firmness. Thach spoke. “We thank you for introducing us to good friends, sir.”

  Pham Quyen looked up to find the two headaches. They were in front of the warehouse and came to a salute upon seeing Major Pham.

  “Uh, . . . what are those two doing here?”

  Cuong replied, “With your introduction we tried out a deal with them. It’s now been two weeks and the business results are outstanding. They’re already among the most trustworthy dealers in Le Loi market. I handed them over to my brother here, sir.”

  “They’re sharing my office,” Thach said.

  Pham Quyen frowned.

  “That’s not good at all. You realize that they are CID agents?”

  Cuong laughed loudly. “What a thing to say. Where are we, anyway? This is Le Loi market, the most famous one in central Vietnam. Here the merchants trade with devils and the honorable Buddha alike. Do you know how the saying goes around here? The color of money tells all. That’s it. Whether red or blue, the only meaning is that it’s a five- or a ten-dollar note. Over there in that other alley, the American side is frequenting old man Huyen’s shop. Whatever information they gather and whatever inquiries they make, we don’t concern ourselves with it. Le Loi market is like a pipkin in which medicinal concoctions are blended, anything that comes in here turns black and melts away.”

  “That sounds plausible. Where are they getting the goods?”

  “Turen, sir. It’s like child’s play.”

  “How come your younger brother, Thach, is giving them space?”

  Cuong gave a quick glance at the two men standing back there and, in a lowered tone, said mischievously, “To keep the other merchants guessing, sir. We know about lots of things. And if we have friends like them sharing our office, then the other traders won’t take us lightly. Now old man Huyen will have to be wary of us. Thanks to the circumstances, my brother is enjoying some fringe benefits.”

  “I see. Typical of you to look at it that way. I’ve also just hatched a good idea about those two.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “It’s a military secret.”

  Cuong and Major Pham broke out laughing, patting each other on the back. The two men sauntered up toward them. Toi was talking to Thach about something. Ahn Yong Kyu approached Pham Quyen and said, “Major, if you’ll give us a ride we’ll come along with you. If not, we can go separately in our car.”

  Pham Quyen looked puzzled and asked, “And where are you going?”

  “To your new residence, sir. Miss Oh invited us for dinner. We’re friends.”

  “Go on, get in my car,” Pham Quyen responded in a haughty tone.

  “Yes, but we’ve got something to carry.”

  Ahn whistled to Toi, who went inside the warehouse and came back out with a large wrapped box.

  “It’s an oven, sir. A gift for Miss Oh.”

  “Ah, that’s nice.”

  Thach rushed over and pulled the zipper on the back flap all the way up, then helped load the box. Yong Kyu and Toi climbed in the back of the Land Rover. It was roomier than it looked from outside, and the space could have comfortably held another two people. Cuong and Thach stepped back and looked on proudly as Pham Quyen drove out through the front gate. Unlike the b
ack entrance, the front alley was rather wide and it soon opened onto the main avenue near the inter-city bus terminal.

  “It’s a fine car,” Toi said.

  “Feels a bit dull, though,” said Pham Quyen. Looking at Yong Kyu in the rearview mirror, he asked, “Having a good time?”

  “Thanks to you.”

  “Are you taking deliveries at Turen every day?”

  “No, sir. Just Monday, Wednesday and Friday.”

  “How much so far?”

  “Oh, a few thousand, not so much.”

  “Enough to pay for the pass and the use of the conex box, I suppose.”

  They drove along Doc Lap Boulevard past the Grand Hotel and sped along the beach road. From that point on a residential district began. On both sides of the street were tall trees with trunks that it’d take three men linking arms to encircle. They passed by a tennis court nestled in a forest clearing, made a right turn at a main road and headed up a sloping grade. Houses were scattered among the trees and the breeze off the sea had a briny edge. The vista to the left looked down on Son Tinh, the far end of Da Nang Bay and the ragged peaks of Bai Bang were also visible.

  They came into a residential compound for high-ranking US officers and foreign civilians. The car pulled to a stop in front of a stairway carved out of stone. On either side of the steps there were blooming orchids, hyacinths, African lilies, mescals and white and yellow irises. It was a one-story house with white plaster walls. The long leaves of a palm tree hung down in front of the picture window in the living room. Oh Hae Jong, who had been watching for them for some time, came out. She was wearing a casual dress with fluffy sleeves in the style of the Philippines. Yong Kyu nodded at her.

  “How are you? It’s a nice place.”

  “Ah, I’ve just finished arranging things. I find it easier to stay in a hotel.”