by Ward Just
Assimilate or Disperse
FIFTEEN MINUTES from Tan Son Nhut she asked if she could have some water from his canteen. He passed it back and she drank a few sips while she raised herself to look into the rear-view mirror. God, she whispered. I look a mess. Poor Claude, only last evening talking about the unpredictability of the revolution and how we would have to be more careful. Her voice wandered, as if her thoughts were blown off course by errant winds.
The day had begun so well, she said. A café crème and a brioche on the verandah, listening to short-wave BBC. Do you listen to the BBC, Sydney Parade? You should. The news is reliable. And most of it isn't from here.
I'll remember, he said.
Then she had taken her binoculars and field guide, Les Oiseaux de l'Indochine Française, and staked out the grove of firs at the western edge of the plantation, enjoying the company of the birds and a trillion murmuring insects. The forest was dark even at midday, and a patrol had passed within a hundred meters of where she stood. They moved gracefully and quietly with a rhythm like dancers. And at once she saw a fire-backed pheasant and a red junglefowl, all in the space of fifteen minutes.
A wonderful morning, she said.
It was so rare to see them together. The point of bird-watching was to discover disparate species in the same area, and when you did it was cause for rejoicing. There were the normal woodpeckers and sparrows but she had not expected the junglefowl and the fire-backed pheasant—to be absolutely official about its identity, "Diard's Fire-Backed Pheasant, Lophura diardi (Bonaparte)." Not the emperor, surely, but a relative. It would be hard for the emperor to keep track of birds with all those corpses on his hands. Birds would not count, would they? On the other hand, the emperor was a hunter and the bright red face of the fire-backed pheasant would attract him, no? Probably it was named in his honor after one of the great bloody victories, Austerlitz or Jena; the bright red face would remind the ornithologist of Austrian blood, or the feather in the emperor's cap.
Sydney said, You were bird-watching?
Of course, she said. You have no idea how many species there are on the plantation, Sydney. Vietnam is an aviary. You could spend your entire life cataloging the birds in Les Oiseaux de l'Indochine Française and never see them all, until one day you would find a species that had never been recorded and then you could name it after someone, Gray-faced Buzzard (Dacy). She laughed hollowly and then fell silent, idly watching the motorcycles and taxis, stalled now in the traffic jam around the airport. Helicopters thumped overhead, the sound blending with the roar of commercial jets. The air was thick with the stench of kerosene.
He said, Isn't it dangerous?
Why should it be?
As you said, "the revolution."
They're not interested in birds or the people who watch them. She leaned forward, resting her chin on the seat back. She said, Go straight here until you see the cathedral, then turn left.
If I see a military jeep, I can get us an escort.
No escorts, she said.
Sydney drove through a high iron gate into a courtyard bounded by low stucco buildings with louvered windows open to the air. Large-waisted plane trees shaded the courtyard from the afternoon sun. Among gnarled stone sculptures of the Cham, patients in blue pajamas sat in twos and threes on wooden benches attended by nurses who stood apart chatting among themselves. The hospital had its own specific ambiance, like that of a campus or religious retreat far from any commercial or civil authority. When Sydney turned off the Scout's engine the place was quiet and cool under the huge leaves of the plane trees.
Then two doctors were opening the passenger door and lifting Dede Armand from the back seat, speaking to her calmly in French. Two Vietnamese orderlies stood nearby with a stretcher but she paid no attention to them and broke away from the doctors. With a sharp cry she spilled into the arms of the gumbooted stranger who had come up behind the doctors. He half carried her to the stretcher but she refused to lie down. She was laughing and crying at once, saying she did not want to leave him for the stretcher or for anything else, everything would be fine now that he was here at last. He whispered into her ear and kept whispering as his hands caressed her hair and shoulders, though his eyes were fastened on her bloody dress and the belly beneath it. Finally he picked her up and hurried her into the hospital like a bridegroom crossing the threshold, the doctors giving what assistance they could and the orderlies bringing up the rear; everyone talking now until the French doors slammed and the courtyard was as before, peaceful, with only the vague hum of traffic beyond the stone walls. The patients in blue looked on from their benches before returning to conversation or their newspapers. Somewhere a radio played American pop from the armed forces station; and then as Sydney strained to listen he realized it was not American pop from a radio station but La Bohème from a phonograph.
He took a long swallow of water from the canteen and lit a cigarette while he strolled the courtyard, admiring the stone figures of the Cham, animal deities. The Cham were a Muslim tribe that had refused to assimilate. Now there were only a few isolated communities, mostly in central Vietnam. They had held out for three hundred years, like the American Indians, except the government did not care where they went or what they did and offered no sympathy, or employment either. Assimilate or disperse. These sculptures were very old and represented what was known of Cham culture, at least to Westerners. No doubt the Cham had their own view of themselves and perhaps the sculpture meant no more to them than golf to a Connecticut squire, something they did in their spare time as recreation. At one of the briefing sessions in Washington Sydney had shared notes with the provincial-representative-to-be in Qui Nhon, who had announced his intention to make friends with the Cham and discover what animated them and what they valued, if anything; and if they had any insights into the progress of the revolution. They were a subjugated people, after all. The briefer had laughed and said, Good luck.
How distant all that was, the blackboard and chalk, the maps, the charts and bar graphs, the briefing books and the lectures of experts. Nothing in the briefing books about a shooting in the market at Xuan Loc, a'séance with the local VC cadre, and a ninety-minute drive to a private hospital in Saigon with an American woman in the rear seat of the Scout, her dress soaked with blood, haranguing him for a general lack of subtlety and tact. And that was why, when she heard his Sousa voice in the stall, she flinched—appalled at the impulsive American official come to violate her neutrality. She was one of those who lived between the lines in South Vietnam, living as if there were no revolution and no reason to choose sides, happy to pursue her bird-watching from a safe haven on her husband's rubber plantation. Forget the revolution and she could have been one of those who fled the big city for rural Connecticut. Simplify.
Sydney watched an elderly monk step through the French doors, his arm in a black sling, an IV hanging from a wheeled steel tree. He moved carefully, favoring the arm and his right leg, awkwardly gripping the tree with his free hand. The other patients looked up and nodded respectfully, offering a palms-together Buddhist greeting. None of them rose to speak to the monk, who acknowledged them with a benign dip of his chin. His saffron robes were brilliant in the monochromes of the courtyard. He made a dignified figure as he shuffled along six inches at a time. Sydney wondered if this monk was the one injured in the bomb attack at the temple a few blocks from the American embassy. A number of religious had been killed or injured including a radical, a monk controversial within his own sect and a danger to the government. Sydney could not remember his name—it was Thich Tien Something, a stubborn oppontent of all Vietnamese factions, particularly the government faction. The bomb at the temple was an outrage condemned by the various parties, except the Viet Cong, which did not issue communiqués. Because no one had claimed responsibility, the government was free to denounce the Communists—in the guise of monks more radical even than the old man shuffling along the perimeter of the courtyard, pushing his steel tree. He turned now to look
at Sydney, his expression perfectly bland. It would be too much to call it serene. When Sydney nodded, the monk appeared to return the nod and after a moment continued his circumambulation of the stone path beneath the windows of the low buildings, the path guarded by the stone deities of the Cham.
La Bohème ended. Sydney sat comfortably on a bench under a plane tree and lit another cigarette, watching the French doors and wondering how Dede Armand was faring inside. He remembered the threadbare gloom of the New York hospital where his daughter was born, the plastic furniture and the month-old magazines, the waiting room filled with men. Karla was in labor for eight hours, and when he was allowed to see her at last she could only murmur I've been in a train wreck. The doctors in New York were hurried and irascible, behaving as if they had been somehow inconvenienced by the long labor and delivery. These French doctors seemed sympathetic and capable and Claude Armand very capable. Sydney had never seen a woman drop into a man's arms as Dede had, falling from the highest precipice without fear, knowing she was safe now with her husband, his eyes wide open with relief.
If Claude was horrified at her condition, he betrayed nothing, continuing to whisper into her ear and comfort her with his hands, while she held on. And then he picked her up and carried her into the hospital because the stretcher was too impersonal for a woman with blood on her dress and a child in her belly, the child growing inside her these many months but still now. It was obvious they meant everything to each other. Living between the lines in dangerous circumstances would give them a special connection, like living on a fault line or under a volcano. They could trust no one but themselves; or blame no one but themselves. In Vietnam they were without allies in a milieu overturned by revolution and that was no part of their life together. The war was one thing, the plantation another, as distinct as Darien and Harlem. Sydney remembered that Karla had looked at him that night as she might a stranger, and then she asked him to leave the room, she was so tired. But he stayed, and when she woke up an hour later she was so happy to see him. She made room in the bed so they could hold each other.
He watched the French doors open and Claude Armand step into the sunlight, his hand on his forehead. He took a step and sagged, steadying himself on one of the Cham deities. When he looked up he saw the monk creeping toward him, pushing the IV tree. Claude went at once to the old man and they embraced, the Frenchman towering over the old Vietnamese. His khaki shirt was stained with his wife's blood. They stood talking a moment, Claude explaining something, shaking his head with infinite melancholy. Then he spat a furious sentence in Vietnamese, causing the monk to put a finger to his lips, leaning close now, speaking directly to him in a soft purr. Claude nodded wearily and looked around. When he heard a helicopter's chop-chop he stared at the sky with loathing. There were two of them flying over the hospital, side by side. Claude said another few words to the monk, all the while scuffing the toe of his shoe on the gravel.
He started when he saw Sydney on the bench under the plane tree. He took the monk's free hand with his own and spoke urgently a minute more, nodding his head in Sydney's direction. And then he looked back at the French doors and the darkness within the hospital. No one was visible through the open windows. This seemed to be a moment of indecision for him. Claude stood motionless, then turned and said goodbye to the monk and walked across the gravel to the bench where Sydney sat.
He said, I want to thank you for what you did.
Sydney said, It was nothing. How is she?
You didn't have to do it.
She is an American. Of course I would help her.
The Frenchman looked at him strangely, pursing his lips as if measuring the value of an American soul against a French or Vietnamese soul. He said, She needed to be brought here, where she knows the doctors. Where they have the proper facilities. Where she feels comfortable.
I understand. I offered the army clinic because it was closet; but she insisted.
It would have made no difference, Claude said.
Sydney nodded, afraid now of what he might hear.
The babies were stillborn.
Babies?
Yes, twins. A boy and a girl. Both dead. We had no idea there were two.
And your wife?
He paused before answering, and when he did his voice shook. They're not sure. They think she will be all right but they need to wait before they're sure. It's the way of doctors, isn't it? They always make you wait before they tell you something you don't want to hear. He slowly knocked his fists together while he looked at his muddy gumboots. She's under the anesthetic now.
I know she'll be fine.
There was an ocean of blood, Claude said. He looked skyward where two more helicopters were idling. I have never seen so much blood.
She told me that the hospital was excellent. Sydney thought to add, As good as anything in France.
It's an ordinary hospital, Claude said. But she knows the staff. She has confidence in them.
She told me you play tennis with the surgeon.
Claude smiled. She said that? It's true. He's a better doctor than he is a tennis player.
Well, Sydney said. They breed confidence in Chicago. It's one of their natural resources, along with money.
And at that, the Frenchman laughed. She has plenty of the first, not so much of the second. Her family did not care for it that she came to Vietnam with the embassy. And then when she married me ... He shrugged. Perhaps they had someone picked out for her. Do you suppose that was it?
Probably they thought Vietnam was dangerous. Or they were opposed to the war.
They liked the war, Claude said. They didn't like her in the war. They don't understand what she is doing with her life.
What does she say?
She laughs and says they are her family and are entitled to their opinions. Claude smiled at the monk, who continued to circumambulate the courtyard in six-inch steps.
Who is he? Sydney asked.
Claude replied that he was the monk injured in the explosion at the temple. They had rushed him at once to this hospital because they feared for his life in the Vietnamese hospital, where accidents had been known to occur. The American military hospitals were impractical. He is a bonze with many enemies, Claude said, some known, some not known. He was active in the demonstrations that caused annoyance. So they brought him here, where he would be safe. This hospital—and here the Frenchman paused fractionally—is neutral. It is like Switzerland in Europe. But he is not recovering as rapidly as they had hoped, so they are making arrangements to move him. There are many offers from overseas, eminent surgeons in eminent hospitals. But he thinks that if he leaves Vietnam he will die. Separated from his ancestors, his temple, and his prayer flags he is certain he will perish. They are trying to convince him otherwise.
Sydney was unsure exactly who "they" were—perhaps other members of his sect, perhaps political friends—but he asked no questions. He was surprised that Claude had divulged as much as he had.
I am sure that in America—
Yes, Moscow also. And Paris.
He must be a very important monk.
He is to them, Claude said.
Because he is political?
Because he is troublesome, Claude said. And independent. He organizes strikes. He publishes declarations that the government doesn't like. They try to silence him and he disappears into his temple. And when he believes the time is right, he reappears with his followers or with one of his declarations. Hanoi does not know his intentions so they withhold support, at least they withhold it publicly.
So he's a puzzle, Sydney said.
He is. And they all want a piece of him, Moscow, Washington, and Paris. But he is too shrewd for them. He remains in Vietnam. He represents a third way so he remains in Saigon, because to go abroad would be to declare gratitude to whichever government takes him in. He is stubborn and very sure of himself, though perhaps less stubborn and sure of himself since the bombing. He was badly hurt and not only in his bod
y. In that way he reminds me of my wife, who insists on going places she should not go, her stake in the forest for the birds and the market for her Coca-Cola. I spoke to her about it many times. But as you say, they breed confidence in Chicago. And in Vietnam also.
Claude had been glancing in the direction of the French doors and now he excused himself, he wanted to make a final check with the doctors to see that his wife was resting comfortably. When he returned in thirty minutes he was wearing a fresh shirt.
Sydney proposed a rendezvous at the Continental Palace, with the world-famous terrace where everyone gathered for drinks and intrigue, but Claude Armand said no, the Continental was too crowded. There was too much politics at the Continental, where the walls had ears; the tables and floors, too. The drink would be on him at the Cercle Sportif, where no one ever talked politics. People came to the Cercle Sportif to forget about politics. They could sit in the bar and talk undisturbed because everyone would be at the swimming pool, even your ambassador. They tell me he comes every day for a swim in the afternoon, up and down the pool, six laps, no more. He always drinks a lemonade. Monotonous, don't you think? The ambassador is in the pool and the commanding general is on the tennis courts. Some war; no?
In the event, neither the ambassador nor the general was present. The tennis courts were occupied by athletic Americans in white, gray-haired staff officers from American military headquarters and diplomats from the embassy, sweating hard in the heat. Of course there were Germans and Belgians and Poles and Indians and Australians; but, really, it had become an American club. Budweiser had replaced "33" Export. The high-spirited crowd around the swimming pool was younger; teenage girls in bikinis and their boyfriends in tight trunks, showing off on the high dive or oiling themselves with Coppertone. The air was heavy with chlorine and frangipani. Under the blue canopy near the giant palm at the far end of the pool, four thirtyish women in sundresses played serious bridge. Claude explained that they were the wives of diplomats and journalists; the teenagers were locals, sons and daughters of Saigon merchants, government officials, and army officers. The boys had arranged deferments from the army and spent their days at the Cercle Sportif, dreaming of a visa to America.
