A Dangerous Friend

by Ward Just

  God almighty.

  Did you see that one look at us? Right at us.

  Ugly little bastard, blind as a bat. That's as close as we'll ever come, Syd. God almighty.

  Did you see the bikes? They looked fifty years old.

  God almighty, Rostok said, and began walking.

  Five minutes later they were in the driveway of Group House. Rostok opened the door to his Scout and heaved himself inside. He took a revolver from the glove compartment and laid it on the seat beside him. He sat for a moment, thinking, his hands at two and ten on the steering wheel. He was gripping it so tightly his knuckles were white. He started the engine, the racket shattering the evening stillness. He lit a cigarette and watched the smoke drift away out the window.

  Our lads caught a couple of youngsters last week, he said thoughtfully. Infantrymen from the Something regiment that operates around Tay Ninh. They were just peasant boys from the North. The interrogator had a bright idea. Instead of asking them the usual questions about troop strength, operations, and so forth—which he knew he wouldn't get answers to anyway, until he went to the screws and the water pail—he asked them questions you might ask in a high school history exam. Turned out they didn't know the simplest things. They had only the vaguest idea who we were and where we came from. They did not know we occupied a continent half the world away. They did not know the simplest facts about the twentieth century, Hitler and the Second World War. Eisenhower and the D-day landing. They did know about Stalin and they knew about the Bomb. They had never heard of Roosevelt or Truman. Drew a blank on Winston Churchill. They did not know where Australia was. Of their own revolution they were similarly ignorant, except that it had to be done and it would succeed, thanks to Ho and General Giap and the example of Dien Bien Phu. Think about that, Sydney.

  Sydney grunted. His mind was back somewhere on the road with the silent bicycle soldiers.

  Nothing to fear from them, Rostok said. Knowledge is power and they're ignorant, so in the last analysis they're powerless. Nothing to fear from the Armands, either. They're marginal people. They won't last. They've been in Vietnam for so long they can't imagine the shape of the modern world, its conscience and direction. They're not stupid people. They're people who are unaware. They're people who have been left behind. The world has moved on but they have not moved on with it. So they're incomplete. They choose to be incomplete, so the hell with them.

  Sydney tapped the hood of the Scout. Bye-bye, Ros.

  When you find Claude Armand, let me know at once.

  Rostok gunned the engine, then turned it off and got out of the Scout. On second thought, he would not attempt the drive back to Saigon. He was tired. He reached through the window to fetch the revolver. If Sydney's spare bedroom was free, he'd take it.

  A Shooting in the Market

  FOUR MONTHS IN-COUNTRY, dreamless at night, Sydney Parade was the happiest he'd been. In the mornings he spread the huge map of Vietnam on his desk and memorized the villages in his sector; some of them inaccessible by road. The army provided a helicopter for a reconnaissance by ait; but that was useless because the landmarks were unfamiliar and distances seemed not to correspond to the map. Yet he believed he had entered into the modern world at last, the one that floated unmoored on the surface of a vast windless mirrored ocean, the horizon forever out of reach. The journey mattered more than the destination, which remained undefined. Whatever it was, they were making progress toward it.

  Llewellyn Group lived in flux, the days changing and dissolving, marked only by the accumulation of facts, data assembled from a thousand collection points—rice distributed, vaccinations administered, dikes repaired, roads and bridges built, schools refitted, reports filed. Numbers were fundamental to the estimate of the situation. They tried to build a narrative from the numbers, numbers doing the work of verbs and predicates, numbers supported by instinct, instinct supported by numbers. These were the facts of the matter. As Rostok said, It all adds up.

  In his letters home, Sydney attempted to put a human face on the statistics—the resigned look of schoolchildren as they stood in line waiting for polio vaccine, the patience of farmers as they listened to an agronomist explain the miracle of pesticides, the surprise and pleasure on the faces of the local militia when an army unit arrived with a Rome plow to build a soccer field. He imagined himself undergoing a kind of conversion, from apostate—though he had never had great faith, so there had been precious little to renounce—to believer. If these small actions could be duplicated in the countryside every day, would not the Vietnamese people rally to the cause of the government? The revolution offered only hardship and danger; of living like a hunted animal without adequate provisions and with no furloughs, ever, only funerals in absentia. What sort of life was that? Meanwhile, the American arsenal grew and the infantry divisions kept coming.

  And the revolution did not hesitate. It grew along with the American arsenal, and the raids and subversion and sabotage grew as well. None of this activity was justified by the statistics, so painstakingly assembled.

  The country team was drawn to extreme analogies in attempting to explain the flux of the facts. Preparing for bed in the thick heat, elated at his own good fortune, Sydney began to think of them as believers in the occult, the veneration of the Virgin or of the Cabala or of ordinal numbers or strange beasts, unicorns or Chimeras, invoking the spirits of the dead or the white magic of theurgists. Often he thought of Ho Chi Minh's pastry swans afloat on a silver platter, decorated with confectioners' sugar dust and angels' hair; how disconnected from the revolutionary world the kitchen at the Hotel Carlton must have seemed to the young revolutionary, and how tyrannical old Escoffier in his toque and white apron stained with the blood of young lamb.

  They sought only to arrive at an estimate of the situation, the subterranean as well as events in front of their own eyes. The ground shifted as they watched, each day a discrete unit unconnected with what had gone before or what would come later. Far from giving a sense of possibility, the fitful days seemed accidental and baffling, somehow perverse. Parade was the same person. The world was the same world, yet unfamiliar day to day as if each milky sunrise brought forth a new narrator with a fresh tale to tell and a special way of telling it. Naturally some narrators were less skilled than others, hence the tortuous path to an agreed-upon estimate of the situation. And that was what the authorities in Washington demanded and would have. Washington sought a novel angle of vision, a way of looking at the facts that eliminated utterly the bias of the observer. The idea was to quantify progress in such a way that no one could dispute it. What must be done? Where do we stand in this war? How tight do we draw the tourniquet? Not simple questions at all. Perhaps not even the right questions. But their world turned on the answers.

  In that general spirit Sydney Parade went in search of Claude and Dede Armand.

  No one knew the precise location of the Armands' plantation. It was not marked. The Americans said it was in the vicinity of Xuan Loc town, either north or south off Highway i. However; it was reckless to drive too far north of town, where the government's writ did not run; south was the better bet because the road was secure, at least in daylight when the militia's guard-posts were occupied. Sydney enlisted Mai's aid, but she turned up nothing. At the café he received only puzzled stares, except for Cao, who said he was unable to help.

  None of the village elders had the vaguest idea of any rubber plantation under the supervision of a Monsieur Armand. That name was entirely unfamiliar. Of course SIPH and Michelin and the other rubber companies had vast holdings from the century before, from Xuan Loc south to Vung Tao on the sea. SIPH alone had eighteen thousand hectares under cultivation. But always there had been a manager in charge of the whole. He lived in Cholon and was habitually unavailable, often traveling in Malaya and Cambodia. Individual managers had responsibility for their own fields but, alas, they were uncommunicative. They only wished to keep to themselves, for the good of the production.

&
nbsp; The local prefecture was no help either for taxes and general oversight were the responsibility of the ministry in Bien Hoa, well known for its secretiveness and hostility to any sort of inquiry. Each plantation was its own authority, sufficient unto itself. The government had no reason to interfere. The planters were good citizens, and the rubber industry the keystone of the district's economy.

  Why do you wish to see this Monsieur Armand? the priest asked.

  His wife is American, Sydney said. And I bring greetings from his family in France. I would be grateful for any assistance. Perhaps if I gave you a note, you could pass it on when you see him.

  I have never met him, the priest said.

  They were sitting in the front pew of his church, Father Nguyen looking old and worn out, his withdrawn eyes and shaved head giving him the aspect of a Buddhist venerable rather than a Catholic priest. He wore a black short-sleeved shirt and absently fingered the small ivory cross that hung from his neck on a silver chain. His English was slow and precise, his voice hesitant; but that could be the strain of violating the Ninth Commandment. This priest was no stranger to false witness.

  Yet Monsieur Armand has lived here for years, Sydney said.

  I did not know his wife was American, the priest said.

  An American from Chicago, Sydney said, adding a smile.

  Chicago? the priest said, shaking his head. His expression was bemused, as if he suddenly had had a vision of the Wrigley building or the stockyards. He said, How do you suppose she found her way from Chicago to Xuan Loc? It's the other side of the world, Chicago. Life must be very strange for her now, so many of her compatriots in Vietnam. And in uniform.

  They did not attend mass, then?

  I am sure they have not, the priest said. He looked vaguely scandalized. He thought a moment, then continued, Surely I would have seen them, a Frenchman and an American woman from Chicago. They would be conspicuous, no one could miss them. They would be noticeable, yes?

  One would think, Sydney said. He let his eyes wander over the interior of the church, the threadbare carpet and the chipped feet of the plaster Jesus on the cross behind the altar. One of the windows in the choir was broken and here and there the roof sagged.

  Your roof needs repaid Sydney said.

  Yes, the rains last year damaged it badly.

  Not war damage?

  No, the priest said. Xuan Loc is peaceful.

  I would be honored if you would allow me to have the roof fixed, Sydney said. Perhaps work could begin as early as—next week. It's only a matter of scheduling one of the construction battalions. Major Buszcynski would be only too happy to help. He's a fine craftsman and his men work quickly.

  Sydney waited while the priest thought. He rubbed the ivory cross between his thumb and forefinger as he scrutinized the ceiling, the wood flaking, infected with dry rot. The entire structure was unsafe, had been for years, a fact he had repeatedly warned the diocese about, but the archbishop had other uses for church funds. Now this American walked in and offered one of his battalions—next week! Of course there was risk, a troop of foreign soldiers occupying the church. Repairs would take time. Inquiries would be made, and if his answers were not correct, trouble would follow. Still, if he refused and the archbishop found out—

  Yes, the priest said at last. It's very kind of you. Perhaps you know someone who can fix our organ.

  Alas, Sydney said. But I'll inquire.

  Thank you, the priest said.

  My pleasure, Father. I will call on you next week.

  I am always here, the priest said. Somewhere behind them a door opened and closed.

  In the meantime, I will continue to search for Monsieur and Madame Armand. I know he is eager for news of his family. And she might enjoy speaking with a compatriot. And if by chance you should discover the precise location of the house, perhaps you would be good enough to let me know. In confidence, of course.

  The priest smiled distantly, rising to shake hands with Sydney. Then an elderly woman was at his elbow. She was obviously distraught. She took his hand in both of hers and whispered a few words in rapid Vietnamese. The priest stepped back, alarmed. The woman moved closer to him and spoke again, motioning urgently with her hands and beginning to wail. The priest put his arm around her and, facing the altar, genuflected. They remained a moment, heads bowed. Then he took her arm and they hurried off together, leaving Sydney alone near the altar.

  At the side door the priest paused and looked back.

  There has been a shooting in the market, he said, and was gone.

  ***

  The market was on the edge of town, a sprawl of low wooden stalls. There were no American vehicles, no ambulance nor any sign of military activity. Acrid smoke from cooking fires hung in the hot woolen air, merciless at noontime. Water buffalo stood motionless in the marshy field next to the market while tree sparrows and small woodpeckers flitted here and there. Vultures swung in lazy circles overhead. When Sydney arrived in the Scout he was aware at once of the vacancy and the silence and the nonchalance of the women behind the long tables laden with foodstuffs and clothing; their expressions were unreadable. The market was usually crowded at midday but now it seemed forlorn. The police the Americans called White Mice for their milky cotton uniforms appeared to be in charge. They were standing in a circle with their hands on their leather holsters chatting among themselves. One of them saluted when Sydney approached, then waved listlessly in the direction of the interior stalls. He said there had been shooting and people injured. He did not know how many injured, or who did the shooting, or why. He and his squad had arrived after the fact and no one seemed to know exactly what had happened. Those responsible had disappeared.

  A local matter, he said. A feud between families, a girl in trouble, an unpaid debt, this was common in the countryside—

  VC, Sydney said.

  Not VC, the mouse said, shaking his head vigorously. This was not a political matter but something personal. There were no VC in Tay Thanh. VC were not involved.

  American soldiers, Sydney began.

  This is a Vietnamese affair, the mouse said. American soldiers do not have jurisdiction here.

  Where is Father Nguyen? Sydney asked.

  I have not seen him, the mouse replied.

  Are there doctors here?

  They are en route, the mouse said, shifting his eyes in such a way that caused Sydney to doubt the information.

  He turned and walked off between the stalls of clothing, straw mats, cheap wristwatches, coconuts, live chickens, pots of pho, and contraband from the American PX. He was calculating the distance from the market to the army clinic at the firebase south of Tay Thanh, a half hour or more. A small crowd had gathered at the back of the market. There were many more women than men, their voices high in the leaden atmosphere. Sydney walked slowly and with caution because he was not armed and did not know what to expect. He had no confidence in the White Mice, who were surely lying about the VC; the commissars were involved in every aspect of the market's operation. He moved to the edges of the gathering and gently pushed people aside, very conscious now of his size and awkwardness, a round-eyed foreigner in their midst. He was unwelcome.

  A Vietnamese woman in filthy pajamas was bending over one of the injured. She was holding his hand and staring dully at his ribs, the bones exposed through torn flesh. The ribs were white as ivory. The young man's eyelids fluttered as he whispered something to the woman. Sweat jumped to his forehead as he spoke and still no one moved to bandage the wound or otherwise offer succor. The wounded man was dying by inches in front of their eyes, already entering the shadow realm; and no doubt these spectators recognized the privacy of the situation because now they began to withdraw, leaving the wounded man and the woman attending him in a specific zone of intimacy.

  Sydney had never watched a human being die. This one let go of things with appalling patience, his spirit struggling, then relaxing, then struggling again until the tendons in his neck pulled taut like
ropes. His skin had a glassy sheen. All the while he was whispering to the woman as she gripped his hand, her palm pressing his knuckles. When at last she eased her grip, he nodded. Palm to palm she pushed his hand back as if they were arm-wrestling in pantomime. His spirit ceased to struggle. She dropped his hand on his chest and his eyelids ceased to flutter. Ebb tide, Sydney thought, the instant when the ocean's motion was suspended, the shoals exposed, dead low water awaiting a fresh surge. The wounded man stared straight ahead and died with one last word on his lips, though Sydney had no idea what it meant. The body seemed to rise and then it fell back. Thé woman got slowly to her feet and vanished between the stalls. Sydney stepped back and turned away, suddenly ashamed for his useless witness.

  Then a small boy was tugging at his shirt.

  You come, you come.

  One more sight to see. They began to walk together around the deserted perimeter of the market. The White Mice appeared to have departed but the vultures still swung in the heavy air above the forest. The ground was soft underfoot. Bits of paper and cloth were scattered about, evidence of disorder and flight. The boy indicated one of the stalls, larger than the others. When he put his hand out for money, Sydney handed him some piasters and told him to go away. Then he stepped into the stall where half a dozen Vietnamese men were gathered in the shadows arguing. They looked at him incuriously. One of the men had a carbine slung over his shoulder. No one seemed to be in charge. On a pallet in the rear a woman lay groaning but when the man with the carbine attempted to touch her, she moved his hand away, complaining weakly in Vietnamese. He bent to look into her eyes, murmuring and shaking his head. She did not reply, and Sydney noticed her foot twitching. The Vietnamese shrugged and rejoined the incomprehensible argument; and abruptly the men began to laugh, a kind of mirthless giggle.