by Ward Just
Sydney slid the carbine under the seat and collected the bottles. He was dismayed at the trash in his car, crumpled cigarette packs, opened and unopened C rations, an army-issue knapsack, a bag full of nails, weeks-old copies of the Saigon Post, all the personal effects of a working man who had no private life, unless you counted the unmailed letters in the glove compartment. In any case, they were out of sight. Out of mind, too, because they had been there for a week, neglected in the press of business; and the days had been cloudless. Such a simple matter to forget those who lived in the world an ocean away, and the reward for it was a letter from a lawyer and a bad conscience. The bad conscience arrived at predictable times and places. No one would imagine that a man in an ice cream suit and a blue shirt, a tenue de ville as specified by his hostess, his arms full of liquor bottles, would have a bad conscience because he had failed to notice thunderheads on the horizon—but such was life in Llewellyn Group.
A shadow moved in the hallway and then Dede Armand was standing on the front steps of her bungalow, frowning because the mist had turned again to drizzle, motioning for him to hurry inside. But he took his time straightening the creases in his trousers and checking the knot in his tie. He alighted from the Scout, pulling the umbrella behind him and thumbing it open. He walked slowly across the gravel to the stoop, the drizzle tapping gently on the cloth. At that moment he seemed to have lost his bad conscience. He stood a moment in the wet, looking at the American woman who stood impatiently with her arms folded, an amused expression on her face. Perhaps it was his tenue de ville, perhaps his deliberate manner. He dipped his head, offered her the package, and said sincerely, So happy to be here, Mrs. Armand.
They sat in the sunroom. Claude Armand offered a variety of gin drinks or wine, the usual Algerian plonk but drinkable when chilled. They all took gin from Sydney's quart of Beefeater. The room was as comfortable as he had imagined it, the furnishings bright and well used. Of course he recognized the poster and even the magazine covers seemed identical to those he had seen in the photograph. The room looked out on a vast gray lawn, water puddling; apparently their personal sun had withdrawn. Beyond the lawn were the rubber trees with their every-which-way symmetry. Visible two hundred yards down were the sheds where the rubber was processed. Wisps of smoke escaped from roof vents. Claude described what they did and how they did it but Sydney did not pay close attention, observing instead the workers who came and went, machetes in their belts. When he asked how many workers he employed, Claude smiled and said it varied depending on the season; more at harvest time, less during the planting. They were dependable men, Claude said. Some of them had been working on the plantation for three decades, since before the war. The wages are pitiful, he said. But they get along.
Dede disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a plate of crackers and cheese and cracked crab with savory salt. Sydney complimented them on the cheese, and Claude said his brother sent it from Comminges once every month. Asian cheese was terrible. Asians didn't eat much cheese and therefore didn't know how to process it properly. Their cows were the wrong breed. Their cheese tasted like whey and wouldn't spread. They can't make cheese and they can't make wine.
Isn't that right, darling?
Or crackers, she said. These are English crackers.
My brother sends crackers, too.
When he'd walked into the sunroom, Sydney had had a sense of a conversation just ended. The Armands were cordial enough but something remained suspended in the room. He remembered an actor's remark that grief was the other face of grace, and when Dede Armand made a hesitant motion with her hand, touching the cocktail glass on the table, her manner was laden with dolor. Then he knew that they had been talking of their twins, dead now a month or more. Claude was solicitous of her; touching her arm when he spoke, always keeping her in focus. She was present but not present also, her body here but her thoughts in some private realm.
When Claude spoke of some problem with production—a vat had broken and they were attempting to jury-rig a part—Sydney watched one of the workers trot up the lawn, slowing when he reached the bungalow. He was reluctant to intrude but finally tapped on the window with his fingernails. Claude went to the door and spoke a few words, then returned with an apologetic expression. Another problem with the vat. He would have to see to it.
Will you be all right here? he said to his wife. It shouldn't take long.
Lunch, she said.
I'll be back for lunch, Claude said.
Can I help? Sydney asked.
No, Claude said. Stay with my wife.
He kissed her on the cheek and told Sydney where the ice was. Sydney and Dede Armand watched him move off down the lawn with the worker, who was explaining something, waving his machete in disgust. Claude put his arm around the other's shoulders and for a moment they looked like father and son, the Frenchman dwarfing the Vietnamese; and suddenly Claude laughed loudly, the sound carrying up the lawn to the sunroom where Sydney and Dede Armand sat in uncomfortable silence.
Make a drink for yourself, she said. And one for me, too, light on the gin.
Lime? he asked.
I thought I would die, she said in a voice so low that he thought he had misunderstood her. She sat on the couch with her head on the back cushion, her hands crossed on her belly. It was so unexpected, she said. I never believed anything could go wrong, and then from one moment to the next I could feel them dying inside me. It felt like a stampede, some awful bucking and charging inside me. And everything had gone so well. The doctors were so pleased. I made a stupid trip to the market and one minute I was a mother and the next minute I wasn't. It took no time at all. Something had gone wrong and they still don't know what it was. Was it only that the stars were out of alignment? Not likely. We live a simple life here, Sydney. She touched her upper lip and moved her head on the back cushion as if to deny what she had said. Perhaps it wasn't so simple but we do try to live with the bare essentials. We have what we need. You were kind to me, Sydney.
I apologize for being cross with you in the car that day, she went on. I was afraid you weren't listening. And I was not myself.
He sat across from her now. She had left her drink untouched on the table and continued to stare at the ceiling as she talked.
We are not frivolous people, she said. And then, fiercely, We are not frivolous people. We respect the land. We work hard. We feel we belong here as much as anyone, even the Vietnamese. The French are proud of Vietnam, you know, the Napoleonic code and their language, French culture. It's true they exploited people, as colonial regimes will. The system is—unwholesome. It's disgusting. The French did not understand the changing times and instead of bending to the wind they fought it and lost everything at Dien Bien Phu. Claude believes that there are debts still to be discharged, and perhaps he is right. But it's in the past. It has nothing to do with the here and now. The Vietnamese understand that we love the plantation and that we pay what we can afford to pay. The plantation is productive, even with the bombs and the labor troubles. The disruption of production. Don't you feel that when you have lived in a place and loved it that you belong to it? And it to you? I do. Claude does. He has had many offers in Malaysia and Cambodia. Thailand, too. But he has refused them all. I insisted on it. And if it comes to pass that we are no longer welcome here, then we will leave. But not before. They will have to deport us as undesirables, as you would a criminal or a subversive.
She said, In America you can make another life, find yourself a new personality, put another face to the world and an alias to fit the face. Bored in one place, go to another. Change jobs, change cities, change wives or husbands, change beliefs. But in the end you are the same person with the same troubles. You grew up in Winnetka, danced the tango at Abenaki, necked in the back of a Chevrolet convertible, liked boys with curly hair, took a major in art history, learned to distinguish the Northern Sung from the Southern Sung, the one offering consolation and the other asymmetry. The great scrolls of the five dynastie
s are fifty feet long and you view them five feet at a time. Did you know that, Sydney? Probably not. Probably you're more in the line of Edward Hopper or Degas. I went abroad because I wanted to know something of the world, and perhaps the boys with the curly hair were responsible, along with the Northern Sung. Now I have my house and my husband. I have my birds. I am cataloging the birds of Vietnam. Nothing has changed for me except that I have become devout.
She paused to take a small sip from the glass before her.
I hated the Abenaki Club. Do you know why? Todd told me this. Each spring they planted tulips along the fringes of the circular drive at the entrance to the club. Probably there were five hundred tulips, all colors. Red and white predominated but there were purple and pink also. When the tulips died in June they ripped them up and replaced them with—I believe pansies. They tore them from the ground and threw them away because a tulip bulb, uprooted before its time, dies. The members did not want to see dead tulips in their loop. The tulips had fulfilled their function, you see. So they were discarded in favor of pansies. Marigolds, too.
He was paying the closest attention to her and was dismayed now to hear the sound of explosions, not far off as usual but nearby. The house shook. When he turned his head he saw the windows streaked with rain, so the sound was not bombs or mortars but the drumming of rain on the corrugated iron roof. He saw that smoke was no longer visible from the vents on the roofs of the sheds at the end of the long gray lawn. The racket grew as the rain fell, a downpour that lasted for many minutes before it began to ease. Dede Armand continued to stare at the ceiling, her hands flat on her belly. She was evidently still pondering the flowers, because her lips were moving.
Rain turned to drizzle and drizzle to mist and far away over the clouds Sydney saw a splash of pale blue sky which vanished as he looked at it. He was trying to remember Karla's contemptuous snarl concerning art history majors at the Seven Sisters. Cashmere connoisseurs, she called them.
That's what the Americans want to do with Vietnam, Dede said.
He looked at her and realized she had been talking while the rain fell and he had not heard a word.
She said, I've been away for so many years. I never thought much about patriotism or nationalism. When Kennedy was killed, Claude and I were on the beach in Thailand. Marilyn Monroe dies, the Berlin Wall goes up, the Beatles, Sputnik, books published, movies made. I hear about these things weeks, months later. They have nothing to do with me. And I looked up one morning and a company of American soldiers was in my back yard, they'd lost their way. I didn't like the way they looked at me, so I pretended to be French. Vat ees eet you vant? And I showed them the way out, and I was happy to see them go. What are they doing here? No one wants them except the wretched clique in Saigon who lust for the old way of life, the hunting lodges in Dalat with plenty of servants to keep things going, and vacations in Singapore and the Philippines. And they think the Americans can get it for them. All they have to supply is bodies for the South Vietnamese army. It's disgusting. And what about us?
What are you thinking, Sydney?
He was looking out the window at the sheds. Smoke had begun to feather from the vents. No doubt Claude would be back soon. He said, I'm thinking we live in different countries. I've invented one and you've invented another and somewhere there's a third that's undiscovered.
Reinvention is the opiate of Americans, she said.
It's what we do best, he agreed.
She raised her head slightly and smiled winningly. You look dapper in your tenue de ville, Sydney.
He said, Tailored for the occasion by a venerable gentleman in rue Catinat.
Monsieur Tan, she said.
Yes, him. Does everyone go to Monsieur Tan?
Not everyone, she said. Hong Kong is the city of choice for the bespoke tenue de ville. Almost as stylish as Savile Row and much, much cheaper. We used to go once every few months but now it's been—almost one year.
He watched Claude emerge from the shed to stand quietly in the mist talking to the Vietnamese with the machete. They seemed to be arguing about something, Claude vehemently and the Vietnamese with patience; and then he saw Claude shake his head and look back inside the shed.
She said, We dress up now and again. When we have friends in to lunch or dinner we always make an effort. We refuse to give in. Of course in the past year it's become more difficult to arrange evenings, the countryside's more insecure every day. It's unpredictable. Before, we had—ways and means to plan ahead. Now we never know from one day to the next the nature of the military operations, who's moving and where. But still, we manage. We have a fine community of friends, French and Vietnamese both. Two Corsicans run the plantation next door and one of them has a Swiss wife, Marta. You're the first outsider we've ever had in this house, and you're not a true outsider because you were so kind to me. I suppose also we are Americans together in an environment that is not entirely suitable. It is unwholesome, wouldn't you say? I am trying to make you see why Plantation Louvet is so important to us.
I know it is, he said.
The family is important to the Vietnamese.
It is to everyone, he said.
But she rushed on as if she had not heard him. She said, Plantation Louvet is more important than ever now because they are here. Yes. That's what things come down to, you see. We had the priest come here for the service, only our close friends invited. You have met him. He's the one you spoke to in the church. It's often difficult for him because Catholics support the Saigon clique. Father Nguyen told me you had offered to repair his roof for him. Are you going to do it?
I haven't heard from him, Sydney said.
You will, she said.
Then I'll do it, he said.
So we had the service here with the priest. We buried them—and here she waved her hand in the direction of the forest beyond the sheds, a wilderness that seemed to stretch to the margins of the known world—out there, two simple markers. They will be impossible for anyone to find. But we know where they are. Our children are now part of the plantation, so we will never give it up. To Claude and me it's sacred ground, the place where the priest said his few words and we said goodbye. We hate what is going on around us but that's not our responsibility. We can do nothing about it except endure it for however long we have to, until it goes away. We will live here forever because our son and daughter are here. Do you have children, Sydney?
A daughter, he said.
You should be with her, Dede Armand said. Her voice rose and she moved her head from side to side, her face pale as ashes. You should be taking her to riding lessons at Abenaki and to the Metropolitan Museum. You should see that she has her music lessons. You should help her with her math homework and take her to a matinee. My father left my mother when I was seven. I've never forgiven him. I didn't see him for weeks and weeks and then he showed up at school one afternoon and I burst into tears, I was so angry. He had no right to do it. He told me he had bad conscience but that he would get over it. Do you have bad conscience, Sydney?
He did not reply to that, though she was leaning urgently forward, expecting him to answer. He made a little motion of assent with his hand, clearing his throat, waiting for her to finish her inquisition or whatever it was. He wondered what was keeping Claude.
It's hard to live with, she said.
Yes, he said.
It's a cobweb on your spirit, she added. The cobweb is made of iron.
He said, We are not perfect—
No kidding, she said, mustering a half-smile that promised more than it delivered. She took a small sip of her drink.
She said, Once you have it, it's yours forever.
Bad conscience, he said.
"That which I should have done I did not do," she recited, and then Claude Armand stepped through the door, apologizing for the long delay. The problem was more complicated than he had anticipated. However, it seemed to be fixed for the moment. Apparently.
Dede walked slowly into the kitch
en.
Lunch at last, Claude said.
The table was nicely laid, heavy long-handled flatware and white porcelain bowls with pale blue flowers on the sides. A spray of wildflowers in a glass vase formed the centerpiece, the ambiance reminiscent of Winnetka, if Winnetka were tropical. Sydney and Claude stood awkwardly behind their chairs listening to Dede move about in the kitchen. Claude poured red wine from a stone pitcher and murmured that his wife had had a bad night, more bombing and the rattle of helicopters close to the house, closer than they had ever been, all of it well after midnight. They were dropping phosphorus flares that lit the sky, the light so fierce you could see it with closed eyelids. She was upset and unable to sleep with the noise and the light so they both got up and put a record on the phonograph and played chess. No sleep until first light.
Was she all right with you? Claude asked.
Fine, Sydney replied. She seems to think I have a bad conscience.
Do you?
Yes, Sydney said.
It's very hard on her, Claude said. She doesn't sleep and she doesn't eat properly. She thinks there is something she could have done. She wonders why she went to the market that morning. You can see that she is not herself. I'm sure she told you about the service for the babies and that fool of a priest who's unreliable. He's one of Diem's henchmen although he claims to have reformed. His church does not serve the people and he's opposed to those who do serve the people. But he said a good prayer even though he was nervous, so nervous his hands shook.
